Tenebrion
by Laylah
Summary: The Phantom's story retold.Darkly so.Based on the 2004 movie.R&R to your heart's content, criticism is welcome. Warning:The rating may go up as the story develops.Well, will you open the Pandora's box?
1. His name

**Author's Note:Hello everyone.This is my first phan fic I hope you enjoy it.Reviews are much appreciated as well as constructive criticism.No flames please.This story is a retelling of the Phantom's tale beneath the Opera Populaire,though there will be alot of alterations made.I would like to apologize for the terrible summary, I shall be changing it soon to suit the story.In this story, Alexej is Erik's real name before he was abandoned to the gypsies, the name Erik was given by Mme Giry, because Alexej refuses to do anything with his past and unclaimed heritage.The story's based on Webber's musical and movie, but I just altered Erik's past and his background to give him a little more different and unique perspective of things.**

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**PROLOGUE-THE ORIGINS OF A PHANTOM**

_"She was aferde of hym, for cause he was a devyls son."_

Mallory, Morte d-Arthur

**Wallachia. November 1842**

Anica walked quickly through the wintry Carpathian countryside, ignoring the twigs and leaves caught in her dress and her hair, dragging a child with her whose small strides matched her brisk pace.A strange blend of emotions coursed through her as she spotted the bright orange glow of the gypsy bonfire burning steadily to keep the chill at bay.

She tugged on the child's small hand, quickening her pace.

The little boy was quiet beside her, his visible dark brow furrowed slightly, his pale face devoid of emotion.His face…Anica glanced down at the boy, and resisted the violent urge to cross herself.She couldn't suppress a shudder each time she beheld that..face..

Even after8 years.

She had been his caretaker, brought his meals to that shadowy dark little room, provided him with new books to read once the old ones were flung aside, their knowledge devoured and consumed thoroughly by his eager, sharp mind, presented him with stacks of music of the famous composers, to be played on his little violin with such dark passion and childish enthusiasm and expertise that Anica often wondered if the boy was indeed taught by the Devil himself.He was a genious, without a doubt.His young mind excelled at academics, mathematics, history and languages, poetry and architecture, literature and music with little difficulty, he starved for every scrap of knowledge with the hunger of a scholar.His shuttered, sheltered life drove the boy to ascend into a whole new realm, the domain of musique, and with music, he thrived, in music, he found solace, music nurtured him and fed his soul.His soul..

He had not once requested a single toy, not a single friend, not a scrap of human affection.

Anica almost felt sorry for little Alexej, but when she was targeted by his intense gaze- coldly analytical, rather than childishly curious- dissecting her soul into thousand pieces, all the pity she felt for the child's cruel punishments was dispelled immediately.

There was something…dark about him.Something sinister.

He had always been a distant, detached child, suffering hiscruelfather's physical and mental torment with surprising endurance.He had cravedhis affection at first, his love.

It was not to be.He was undeserving.Yes…indeed there was something sinister about him, of that, Anica was certain.

He was born to suffer.Born to survive.

Yes, he was a survivor from the beginning..The moment he had pushed his way out of his mother's womb, with such fierce primal instinct, Anica had known the boy would grow up to be a fighter, a survivor..or a murderer and a predator…if he lived at all.

But he did.

Of course he did.

Anica recalled that cold November night the Countess Ruxandra gave birth to the one and only heir to the Dragutinovich demesne.She remembered the Blood.There was so much of it, an unholy scarlet in colour, soaked into the pristine white linen sheets, the heavy blankets drenched.The room had smelled of sickly sweet, coppery crimson scent of blood.

It was a time to celebrate, time to welcome the new addition to the family.But the heavy dark curtains were drawn tightly, and all the mirrors in the castle had been draped with black velvet.It was a Mourning.

It was announced that the baby was still-born.

Few knew,_it_had been delivered safely, _it_ was healthy and strong, the tiny body well proportioned and resilient, blessed by the angels.

With a face cursed by the devil himself.

From the left side, it was the face of a cherub, unblemished, with smooth, soft baby skin.

From the right side, it was not a face at all.

Anica was terrified for her mistress, the beautiful 20 year old Ruxandra, a fine replacement for the former Countess Dragutinovich, who had disappeared quietly after it was established that her womb was barren, empty. Ruxandra could not conceive either,nor thedegenerate Count Lazslo's mistresses.

Desperate to provide him with a much anticipated heir, Ruxandra had consultedthat accursedold gypsy crone.The peculiar old woman had given her a foul smelling liquid to be consumed by her husband,along with an ominous warning._That man is not meant to create life, should you concieve his babe, be warned, his black seed is corrupted, his shadows deep.Too deep and beyond the grace of any god._

Anica sighed deeply, forcing the dreadful memories back into the void of her mind.A slight tremor of unease ran up her spine.

Alexej was looking at her.

Then she heard him speak in that soft, satiny voice of his, almost musical to the ear, darkly pleasant and strangely hypnotique.

"Mother's not coming back for me." It was not a question.

_My God..He knew.._Anica glanced down to study his profile one last time before she left him to the gypsies, that angelique side of his face that bore the classique, finely chiseled and strong features of his Romanian father, tempered exquisitely with the cold, regal beauty of his Russian mother.His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of storm grey, which took in whatever drew his attention with fierce intensity, were raised to stare at Anica once more._Eyes of the Predator._Butnow, their depths filled with unspoken fears, untold horrors.

Anica's resolve nearly shattered..she paused briefly, seeing the broken expression on his gargoyle/angel face, abnormal or no, he was still a child.Anica drew a sigh, suddenly overwhelmed by a violent urge to gather his small body close, hold him tightly in her embrace, and kiss his silken midnight black hair..

"Why does she want me gone?" he asked, in his voice a slight tremble.

_Because she is afraid of you.Because you're a constant reminder of her black deed.Because you were never meant to be._

His question lay suspended in the air, a tense silence fell.The caravan master was approaching, to receive the newest addition to his freak show, his tanned, crude features distorted by greed and disgust at the dreadful sight of the boy's distorted and disfigured face.

Anica handed Alexej over to the vodka soaked foul Romany.Then she turned, without so much as a glance to the child she had loathed, the child she had loved.The darkening sky wept, rain splashing down around her, she was caught unawares.But she did not weep for the boy.His talents and resilience would be his saving grace.He would be looked after.He would survive.

After all, he was the devil's child.


	2. Opus Nocturne

**Hello again everyone!Thanks to my reviewers I found the inspiration to write a long long chapter! Hope you enjoy it!**

"_Is this some spirit, O child of man? _

Doth Hecat hold thee perchance, or Pan?

Doth she of the Mountains work her ban,

Or the Dread Corybantes bind thee?"

Hippolytus

"I'm telling you Emil, you're ought to get rid of that devil's spawn!" Petru said in an urgent voice, sweat glistening upon the animal trainer's bearded face.

The caravan master continued to count the coins, ignoring the other man completely, until Petru started pacing around the tent impatiently, resembling much like his agitated animals, mostly exotic beasts from India.

Emil, the caravan master placed the coins back into the pouch and pulled on the drawstring viciously, tucking it in his belt and glancing up to Petru with annoyance.

"What is it now?" he demanded, his voice slightly slurred from alcohol.

"I say, dispose of that little demon!" Petru repeated.

Emil took a huge swig from the bottle clutched in one hand, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Why the hell would I do that? Is he bothering the animals again?"

Petru's eyes grew thoughtful for a moment. "No, no.He has a strange way with the beasts." He muttered before he could stop himself. "But that's beside the point! There's something wrong with that boy, I tell you!"

Emil took another large gulp of the vodka and belched loudly, then snorted.

"Obviously."

Petru, seeing this was going nowhere, took a couple of steps further into the tent.The lamplight cast shadows to flicker across his face, creating a ghoulish illusion.When he spoke, his voice was low and tense.

"Ana says the boy has the evil eye, that some disaster's soon to follow."

The caravan master simply laughed.

"Yes I know what the crazy old bitch keeps babbling on about.If her bloody prophecies were half as accurate as she claimed them to be, she would be entertaining in the Voivode's court, not reading palms and stupid rocks."

Emil reached for the greased whip and fingered its rough length, his thin lips curling into a sneer.

"That freak is a gold mine." He muttered. "And stupid superstitions of a crazed hag do not change anything."

Petru grumbled a swift oath beneath his breath. "You're making a mistake, mark my words." he said, exiting the tent with a troubled frown.

A few yards to the east of the tent, the boy sat on the straw-strewn cold floor of his cage, busily attaching a tiny cymbal to the paw of a little toy monkey he'd found discarded after the show, his dirt streaked hands moving with deft, fluid movements that was almost graceful to behold.Petru watched him with a dreadful fascination.

Suddenly, the boy looked up, his unusual eyes shining with a cobalt grey light, which unwillingly summoned a beast of prey to Petru's mind.In the Carpathians, just before he'd captured the wolf, he'd watched it launch itself out of the bush with a growl, sinking powerful jaws into the deer's neck, ripping out the still beating heart and devouring the shreddedmeat until the deer was reduced to a pile of gory bones.

The same feral gleam flickered in the depths of theicygrey-bluedepths of the boy's eyes, as though shining with the lure of his hunt.

Petru turned away with a shudder, thankful that the nocturnal cover of the night veiled the boy's grotesque face, fingering the charm hanging upon his breast with a quietly murmured prayer to whatever gods that bothered to listen.

That boy was not human.

And so, the gypsy fair had left Romania, and traveled across the Mediterranean, Middle East and Europe, bringing with it the "wonders of the east".

Alexej was mystified, fascinated by the rich tapestry of cultures, faces, cacophony of languages, woven exquisitely with the exotic thread of rare cloths and incenses, spices and flowers, architectural grandeur and historical magnificence, beauty and hideousness. He had witnessed on several ocassions the many faces of Angel of Doom, the dark descent of the Reaper in horrible, or benevolent ways before his eyes.His mind danced with a thousand images of this tapestry of Life and Death, such as he'd never read in any book before, back in his little room in his father's castle in Romania.

He had come across corrupters of every sort; rogues and vagrants, black marketers and thieves, murderers and fallen clergymen, charlatans and lunatics, sorcerers and harlots.

From Istanbul to Cairo, Jerusalem to Baghdad, Prague to Moscow, Venice to Seville, Budapest to Vienna, Bombay to London, across the land and ocean, the gypsy caravan had woven a path of magick and wonder.

Eight years flew by.

He had learned much during those eight years spent with the gypsies, from the mastery of Romany language to the use of the Indian Punjab Lasso, ventriloquism and mimicry, how to hold and use a sword from a Castilian mercenary, trickery of stealth from a Persian acrobat, the strange art of hypnotism and mesmerism from an arab magician.

Unbeknownst to any of them, of course. No one was willing to come near the devil's child, let alone tutor him in anything.

So Alexej had watched, and learned quickly, his brilliant mind unsatisfied, unsated, craving to explore every art and lore known to mankind-mundane or arcane- which was yet to be revealed.

But most importantly, he craved Music.

He created furiously in his mind, inspiration came flowing and flooding his senses in an intoxicating urgency and breathtaking intensity, his dreams and tenebrous fantasies he poured into his musique. Frustrated beyond thought by the fact that he had not been allowed any possessions except for the little peculiar toy monkey, let alone the comfort of quill and parchment to write his music, or the instruments to bring it to reality, Alexej followed the innersymphony, trapping the notes and melodies into his memory with accurate detail to be performed, when he would find his freedom.

With blood.

He was not afraid, no. He simply bided his time, finding refuge in the music of the night until the opportunity revealed itself.

Without music, life was dull, entrapped in a hazy picture of smudged grey shades, faded and smoky.

Rather, music sprung this bleak tableau to life, providing a pure white canvas to be filled with the black and vermilion shades of his soul, the scarlet of his dark agony, and blood red of his physical pain-perpetual and sharp, the abyssal black of his hatred and contempt for humanity and nocturnal crimson of his passions and secret desires.

Passions that, as he passed from childhood into adolescence, revealed slowly…rapturously…agonizingly…

Girls were the biggest enigma of all, their feminine mysteries and beauties darkly alluring, and terribly tormenting.

Girls hated him, they were repulsed and repelled by the hideously disfigured side of his face. That's the first thing they glimpsed. A malefique distortion that sent them screaming or fainting. Ugliness was easily detected...much sought after...twistedly so.

But they were also compelled and intrigued by the unmarred side of the same face that had all the sharp and sincere beauty of his Slavic ancestry andnoble breeding.

And those eyes…

Magnetique..Serpentine at times, or wolfen and feral...seductively, sinfully so...the glacial grey irises gave him a somewhat…mysterious aura about him.

But it was not enough. It never was. It would never be. He was a freak of nature, and had no place among common men. They despised him, loathed him, laughed and shrieked at him, men and women who flocked to see the devil's child.

And they were afraid.

And Alexej knew they were afraid.

He smelt their fear, as a jungle predator senses the terror of his prey.

And he suffered.Suffered unendlessly the drunken and violent outbursts of the caravan master, of thefrenzied whippingsand beatings, of humans' disgusted stares. He endured the cruel treatments with a forced detachment borne solely of survival instinct.He kept a passive look to his gargoyle face, only his lips twitching at the searing pain of the sadistic strikes.

And he'd rather die than surrender his soul in despair at the feet of his tormentors.

Deep down, he was afraid too.

Afraid of revealing his deepest yearnings and desperate dreams.

Dreams of Love.

Love… The shadows whipped and thrashed at his thoughts, angrily so.

And to France, the gypsy caravan headed at last.

To Paris.

City of dreams and dazzling lights.

City of lovers and song and dance.

In Paris, Alexej would find freedom.

Very soon.

Emil paced up and down with enthusiasm, Parisian folk were decadent, indulgent. Parisian audience he loved the best.

He was eager to display the devil's son. Though, an uneasy sensation nagged at his being, faintly, subtly.

The boy had matured quickly, and grew up to be a strong young man. He stoodtaller than boyshis own age, his malnourished body growing lithely muscled, enduring and resilient, able to withstand excessive amount of pain. It was …incredible…

Frightening…

The boy was quite extraordinary to say the least, his superhuman strength and agility, his gracefully balanced catlike reflexes, his sharp, acute senses, the uncanny ability to find his way in darkness, were among his demonique traits.

Emil often found himself wondering…

Such a beast could not be caged, could not be enslaved.

Yet the boy seemed strangely resigned, especially recently.

Emil swallowed thickly, gripping hard the edges of his sanity… with such natural talents the boy could have escaped long ago…

The revelation was not comforting.

Emil tugged at his greasy beard uneasily, wondering if the silly old hag was right about the boy after all.

_Otherworldly, the way he stares at me when I beat his wretched body, it is the chill of the grave that shines in his eyes, much as if my grave itself were being walked upon. No, the hag was right about his dark divinity. _

A slight tremble jolted through Emil.

He took a deep, rattled breath.

He did not care if the boy was human or not. If he was a demon, he was a very profitable one. And that's the only thing that mattered.

**As always, reviews are much welcomed!**


	3. Erik

**Hi guys! Thank you sooo much for the reviews! I love you all! This chapter's rated R to be on the safe side!**

**avid phanfic reader: I love Dark Eriks too! I've seen a lot of good ones, so I decided to make my own, and see how it goes.**

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"_You shall know nothing if you have not known everything._

_And if you are timid enough to stop with what is natural,_

_Nature will elude your grasp forever."_

_-Donatjen Francois De Sade_

_**Paris,France. October 27-1850**_

Paris was a moonlit winter serenade, like a grand offering to Gods, on the sacrifical altar of the night.

The Moon had risen triumphant, along with shadows that filled each crevice of the winding alleys and streets that Alexej was running through.

The blood had been spilled, the sacrifice complete.

Alexej had made his escape, having gorged himself on the powerful sensation of his kill, that honourless dog Emil could not even look him in the eye. As he struggled for a wasted life that hung on a tenuous thread, cut by the Puppet master, slipped through the ethereal curtain into the black oblivion of many crossroads, some led to the Elysian fields, some into the depthless pits of agony and unending night, a realm where unspoken horrors tortured and terrorized their prey, like Cerberus furiously unleashed…

Alexej made sure Emil could not escape its ravages.

He did not linger, however, scandalized Parisian police and enraged Romany performers were after him, with torches and pistols and swords and maces, curses upon their tongues and in their eyes.

Blood for blood.

Ungrateful wretches, those gypsies. Alexej had freed them from the suffocating, evil clutches of that perverse, conniving caravan master. And yet, they still hunted him.

Alexej could not understand their boundless stupidity.

Let the mindless sheep be slaughtered next time.

He had learned his lesson.

He, the conquering ancient darkness, like Hades crowned with the blackened skulls of the trembling unredeemed souls he ruled and dominated with a tyrannical fist.

Through a secret door he had found his way into the small chapel of Opera Populaire.

Forgotten and neglected with dust and cobwebs dominant in this place of worship.

Obviously, these Opera people did not bother to appease their Christian God.

Maybe compared to the architectural medieval magnificence of that gigantique Notre Dame Cathedral, the tiny chapel was a less pleasant option.

Whichever it was, Alexej didn't care in the slightest.

Religious faith was alien to him, strange, ignorant.

Dead.

He was jolted out of his reverie all of a sudden, his ears pricking to the sound of rushed footsteps approaching down the winding stone staircase.

Footsteps light and resonating with a silent balletique litheness. The approaching entity was a she.

Of course, the girl.

He had forgotten about her completely the moment she pushed him through the little , dusk- stained, moon streaked window into the chapel.

Him, the abomination, cast into the hallowed halls of an unfeeling deity.

"Come, this way!" she whispered, taking hold of his hand, grimed and streaked with filth, caked with blood and other noxious elements that a dainty mademoiselle would find offensive to her delicate sensibilities.

Alexej was impressed with her boldness, her open-mindedness that, if sharpened enough, would pierce through the mundane thought easily.

He was bewildered by her compassion. Alexej permitted a tiny candle of hope to burn in his soul, his heart, his mind… albeit cautiously, the candle's feeble light was not yet strong enough to provide a faint illumination upon his opaque midnight.

They had passed through the ancient catacombs carved with seraphique splendour and demonized images, beyond the crystalline frosty lake into a gigantesque stone cavern with a high ceiling and many secret passages and hidden alcoves.

Alexei's bare feet landed on the cold, dry stone floor, quietly. With eyes like glittering blue and grey gems, bottomless, he observed his surroundings-littered with opera props and unused mirrors and other theatrical paraphernalia carelessly abandoned and discarded- absorbed each tiny detail, already a rough image of an architectural master plan to make the cavern inhabitable began to form in his mind.

A demesne of his own. An underground sovereignty of dark musique, where he would rule as a Voivode.

He cut his piercing gaze to the girl-mayhap four or five years his senior- who had been watching him curiously, and Alexej watched her in return, settling his smoky blue-grey eyes on her with equal amount of curiosity, until she shifted her foot uncomfortably and gestured around, a crisp, clear French forming on her lips as soon as her eyes drifted away from him.Her voice resonated within the cavern with a wraithlike timbre.

"We're under Opera Populaire.You can stay here, for as long as you like, this place is forgotten, no one comes here, especially after nightfall. It is said that it was once the hideout of a French aristocrat running from the authorities, a witch to be exact, whose name was supposedly stricken from the royal records after her dabble in black arts was exposed. She was never found again. Some say she performed many dark rites in this cavern, and that the place is some sort of gateway to hell, through which she vanished and that her ghost haunts this place. But of course, this was eons ago, it's all local gossip and hearsay, quite silly, actually."

Alexej listened with intense concentration to each word uttered. To each beat of her heart, drumming with a restless rhythm, though it was not the exhilarating symphony of Fear. Alexej was pleased. Truly pleased. She had seen his face, and yet did not flinch at the distorted visage.

"My name is Antoinette Giry, by the way, I live in the Opera dormitories. I'm a ballerina in training." She added helpfully.

Alexej registered this piece of information, then nodded ever so slightly, but in his eyes were a glimmer which could be mistaken for a friendly light.In his eyes were gratefulness, indeed, the arctic grey irises seemed to soften a shade bluer.

Taking his silence for a slow mind, Antoinette cocked her head slightly, a thin blonde-brown eyebrow arching.

"And you are?"

_The Devil's Child._

_Count Alexej Maximilian Dragutinovich._

_A birthright denied, a name and title dead, reduced to bitter ashes._

_Alexej crushed the memories, savagely, brutally. Casting them broken and battered back into the back of his mind. They were not to be summoned. Not to be touched until…_

" I don't have one, people always referred to me as "hey you" or "that boy" or simply –it- ."

Alexej said, his somewhat unused and rusted French laced with a faint accent, though eloquent and crisp, his voice like smooth black silk caressing the senses.

Antoinette shivered instinctively. Such voice of indescribable beauty. A hesitant and awkward silence fell upon the duo, Alexej watching, a blasé look plastered across his daimon/malaki's face, and Antoinette regarding him with a thoughtful expression.

The boy –who must be in his mid-teens- underneath all that dirt and filth and hideously twisted face, was an intriguing and mysterious personage with an aristocratique carriage and a warrior's confident and proud bearing combined with a scholarly and artistique aura, coupled with a tall, powerful and sleekly muscled physique, which brought to her mind a storybook hero anda villain of ages past, that she had once read in Gustav's book of Scandinavian myths and Nordic tales. Gustav Daae… her dear friend.

"Erik. I shall call you Erik. Would you like that?"

Alexej was silent a moment longer as he considered the name. He nodded his head.

"Erik it is then." She offered a brief, warm smile.

Alexej, or rather, Erik, returned her smile with a frosty one, his eyes a bluish grey fire, like those icebergs partially obscured in the middle of a freezing cold, dark ocean. Alight with a strange warmth.

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Erik watched her leave, observing her like one might a boat far off the ocean, as if trying to recognize what kind of boat it is. She was a fine young woman, and he had found himself growing fond of her friendly presence already. His secret would be safe with her. 

Turning, he began to explore his new haven. Among the discarded wrought iron candelabrums, torn, yellowed parchment paper, broken glass and thick layers of lacy cobweb he spotted a violin.He lunged with a swift grace, his long, slender fingers grasping the musical instrument, his fingertips dancing lightly across its dust covered dark wooden frame, upon the strings, his breath coming harshly from his excitement.

He stood slowly, the violin in his hands, and found himself face to face with a reflection all too painfully familiar within the looking glass.

Placing the violin gently and reverently upon an elevated rock that resembled a dais, and turned back to the mirror.

A ghastly mockery of an angel greeted him, chained in his own private misery and despair.

With an anguished cry he tore the half trousers from his legs, tossing them aside angrily, and leapt into the ice-cold lake, sending ripples undulating across its glassy smooth surface. He emerged into the murky depths, washing away the dirt, scrubbing his faintly golden sun-tinted alabaster skin with such ferocity that he bled himself.

Climbing back up onto the shore, he strode to the large looking glass, its gilt frame scratched and tarnished with age, and stared at his reflection once again.

A young man stared back, his tall frame dripping with crystalline droplets of ice cold water, strands of night black hair plastered across the left side of his face, also dripping, standing tall and rigid, with broad shoulders and torso muscular yet slender, tapering into sculpted hips that flared into powerfully muscled thighs, like that of a dire wolf's, or a jungle cat's, his gaze trailed down the sturdy, long legs, and swiftly back up, past the magnificent length of his manhood and flat, muscled abdomen.

Where he had expected an ugly spectre, skeletal and gaunt, he had discovered a man's body, _a normal human male body._

He could not say why he had created such a morbid phantasy about his own physique within his mind, for the reflection in the mirror's depths displayed quite the opposite with a glaring clarity, like bright sunlight blinding his eyes.

Maybe he was blind, wallowing in his own delusion.

Sunlight he loathed, despised. Light laid bare all his secrets, all his deformities and mocked his very existence.

Light be damned.

Damned into the Abyss.

Shadows undulated along the walls with a silent whisper, raising his hair on end. Shadows…How beautifully they writhed like fond lovers caressing shamelessly beneath the flickering gaze of the lantern's amber light, for as long as he had been alive, darkness was there, embracing him with its icy tendrils like the willing arms of a mother…of a lover…

Dense and ebony was its dance, overwhelming and overpowering its twilight song.

A shuddering sigh escaped his lips…Musique was finally going to be his, for his pleasure, at his whim, whenever he desired.

Considering he had eluded the authorities.

Shadows whispered the unspoken answer.

_You're home.You are safe here. As a Phantom is safe upon Acheron's shores._

Cobalt grey eyes raised once more to the reflection's face, ravaged and scarred with such intensity that Erik shuddered with unconcealed horror. Hand met face, fingertips slowly touching the rough skin that stretched taut over a slightly jutting cheekbone, the flesh unevenly pigmented and marred with several revolting scars, a tangled mass of blemishes that had no place on a human face.His thumb grazed across the gaping black hole that was the right side of his nose, gliding past the cleft down to perfectly sculpted lips now set in a hard, grim line, over to the left side where the elegant slashes of his bone structure met marble smooth ivory skin, moulded into the visage of an incubi.

Devious beauty met twisted grotesquerie.

A brooding black brow arched, his hands trembled…the reflection threatened to crack into a thousand pieces…

_One must accept the hatred with love, beauty with the beast. _

Was it Anica who uttered those softly spoken words? Or was it his own black dementia?

Was it the distant memory of his mother just before she had sent away his only son… for good.

Mere foolish human sentiments that meant not a damn thing to Erik.

He decided not to dwell on it. For now.

Why should he? He had a whole new life ahead of him filled with more promises of agony and rapture.

There would be plenty of time to grieve and despair once he was dead.

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**Ahhh..delusions of grandeur mixed with insane self-consciousness.Erik is going to get darker guys, but PG-13 for now.Especially when Gustav and Christine Daae enters his life in later chapters. Whew, end of this chapter. I'll be updating again tomorrow.**

**As always, reviews are much appreciated, they're great source of help and motivation! I'd like to know your suggestions, whether you want me to tone him down a bit or continue with the dark progress..With Christine it will be really really intense, the guy oozes passion-not only sensually- there will be alot of tension, though not even a single physical touch for a while as Erik never shows his emotions at this stage, but he'll learn to love,obsess and worship, like the dark love god he is! Not to mention his...unknown ancestry which will play an important role in this story...hehe. I won't be introducing Raoul until later on by the way, I have nothing against the guy, it's just that I want to concentrate on Erik and Christine for the moment.By the way, do any of you have any idea what Christine's mother's called?**


	4. The Metamorphosis

**Hi guys, I'd like to apologise PROFUSELY for my horrid mistake, even though I've seen the movie 5 times, I've still got the dates wrong! I can't believe I set the story around the time of French revolution…Gah! slaps forehead That's what happens when you write at 2 am lusting desperately for caffeine. It's still not an excuse, so I corrected the dates as soon as I realized mt mistake! Must read Leroux's novel, for sure.I would like to also tell you guys that supernatural element will play a fair part, but I'd like to clarify one point; Erik is not a vampire or any sort of immortal or undead. There are no crossovers, he's still mortal, and he still bleeds.Oh, bleed he shall indeed! Please bear with me, I promise to deliver you a good story. Thank you all again for your patience and kind reviews.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, the book(s), musical and movie. I do, however, wouldn't mind owning Gerard Butler.**

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"_**God," a Hassidic master remarked, "did not say that 'it was good' , after creating man; this indicates that while the cattle and everything else were finished after being created, man was not finished."**_

_**-Erich Fromm, "You Shall Be As Gods"**_

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She descended into the underground cavern, its darkness opaque, absolute, suffocating. Antoinette set the lantern on a rock and gathered the candelabrums, fitting them with the thick white candles she had brought with her, along with other things necessary for Erik's survival. Candles ignited, banishing the shadows to the far corners of the enormous cavern with their benevolent radiance. 

She found him lying on the hard stone floor, eyes turned heavenward, and unmoving, stark silent, one pale hand rested on a solid dark object which revealed to be a violin upon closer inspection.

"Erik?" She asked, her voice touched with concern.

He turned his head slightly to see Antoinette, dressed conservatively and simply in a plain dark green taffeta dress.

"What are you doing?" A low whisper, as though afraid to breach the tranquil silence.

"Listening." Voice like dark velvet, also a whisper.

"Listening to what exactly?" Confusion creeping into her voice now…

"It's coming from up there." He pointed to the ceiling, casually, other hand still resting on the violin, grasping it lovingly.

Antoinette Giry blinked, not quite understanding. Then realization dawned, and she regarded him with a new found sense of enlightenment.

"They're running the rehearsals for Samson and Delilah" she said absently.

Erik said nothing, his ears perked to the faint sound of the Bacchanale echoing ethereally around him, coiling inside his mind. With a languid stretch, he rose, regarding Antoinette with a mild curiosity. _Why so silent mademoiselle…_

"How… can you hear the music? We're several levels below the Opera House…" She asked finally, and realized she had been holding her breath.

The opera music ceased, faded and dissolved into another melody that equally delighted him. Ah…The sound of Fear. Sweet, intoxicating, deeply addictive…

He had no desire to scare his new-found friend however. His only friend.

"I should daresay my hearing is a trifle sharper than common men."

The ballerina nodded, taking his words at their value, not pressing the subject. Gloved hands gestured to the packages wrapped in paper, and a basket of food and apple cider.

"I brought you something to eat, as well as a few garments, whatever I could sneak from the costume department."

Erik's dark brow arched. "You stole for me?"

"No, the ones I chose were from the pile that has been gathering dust for ages. No one's been using them. They might be a size too small for you I'm afraid, they will probably need some alterations."

"You are kind to me. Why?"

Taken aback by his sudden question, she looked at him, trying to understand the pain of his humiliation and loneliness.

"I saw you suffer…" she began.

"You also saw me murder." He cut in smoothly.

Antoinette stared into eyes of haunting grey, glinting with a primal energy.

"You had no choice."

Erik nodded slightly, not pressing the point. _My dear Antoinette…is that a tremble I hear in your voice?_

She shifted her gaze to the battered old violin still clutched in his hand.

"You play?" She asked, trying to escape from the terrible lapse of silence.

"A little." A tiny sparkle of amusement within his eyes.

Antoinette glanced at the hands holding the instrument like an ardent lover. Slender, masculine, flawlessly formed hands of a musician.

"I must go. But I'll return tomorrow." She said, preparing to leave.

The young ballerina headed towards one of the secret passages that ascended to the cellars of the opera house.

"Antoinette."

She froze, a shiver rippling through her body in waves of chill… The way her name rolled out of his tongue…so smoothly, with a silky softness, yet with firm authority. She turned. He spoke…with a voice coloured with mirth, quietly so.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but unless you can see in the dark, you will need your lantern."

* * *

**_"The backward look behind the assurance of recorded history, the backward half look over the shoulder, toward the primitive terror."_ **

**- T.S.Eliot, **

Years passed by, since the fateful night of the arrival of a genius into the catacombs below the Opera Populaire.

Of the arrival of the Opera Ghost.

Besides writing ominous notes of bizarre instructions for "His" opera house, as well as demanding a regular salary – a large sum by any standards, watching from the shadows the terrified and dismayed opera cast and meddling –and eventually disappearing- stagehands, the giggling and gossiping ballet de corps simpletons, and from box five the disastrous or wondrous performances, Erik had set up his underground domain in the catacombs.

In the dark of the underground lair, his music thrived, prospered, his fantasies became reality as he composed day and night. Although shunned and ostracized by society long ago, the Opera Ghost decided his mysterious personae was indeed more rewarding than he had first anticipated.

He exulted in the pitiful humans' nervously darted glances, their hushed, frightened whispers that haunted him in return; these pathetique humans who were no better than lesser animals, especially that insufferable, temperamental wench La Carlotta and her bloated pet Piangi, who had the perfect ability to destroy a masterpiece with their croaking…and croak they did for temporal riches and fame.

Such mediocre dreams for mediocre men.

Unbeknownst to all, however-even to the Opera Ghost himself- the Fates had already begun to spin the destinies of a tortured genius, and the daughter of the Northlands.

* * *

**THE BLACK METAMORPHOSIS OF A SIDESHOW FREAK**

**_"Nemo repente fuit turpissimus." ('No one ever became thoroughly bad in one step')_ **

**_"All the world's a stage,_  
_And all the men and women merely players;_  
_They have their exits and their entrances,_  
_And one man in his time plays many parts."_ **

**-As You Like It, Act 2 Sc 7, William Shakespeare**

**Paris, September 1862**

The underground lair, or his netherworld, as Erik referred to it, transformed into an epitome of architectural and artistique wonder. A majestique reflection of his inner darkness and the accumulated knowledge of his travels and observations, combined with the beauty of his Balkan heritage.Isolated, and most importantly, inaccessible. All entrances to the underground lair and catacombs were modified, their locks and seals replaced.

Within the inner sanctum, tall, obsidian columns rose up to the high ceiling, spacious rooms contained numerous large mirrors draped with black and deep purple velvet, oil paintings and disquieting pieces of eerie and macabre art, rich tapestries depicting various themes; medieval portrayals of armoured knights wielding great swords, battling a horde of infernal foes, some draconique and serpentine, some skeletal and ghastly, pagan motifs of pre-Christian worship of forgotten and diabolical deities, all set in a gloomy background of a raging and thunderous sky, illustrated with wine reds, maroons, burgundys, autumnal oranges, burnished gold, moss greens, greys in all shades and blacks. On a far wall of the "living room" were finely crafted weapons; a six foot halberd, a double edged bastard sword, a rapier, a battle axe, and a several other shorter blades of varying sizes, all of them viciously sharpened to give these instruments of death a lethal edge, in fact, not all of these medieval array of weaponry were meant to be exhibited as mere adornments, for rust-coloured stains clung to the steel blades like an epiphany to blood drenched glories of a bygone era. On another wall were strange masques of exotique origins, some fashioned to look like skulls and death throes, some arabesque demons and biblical monstrosities, leather and metal, porcelain and papier-Mache, which were all designed by Erik himself into gruesome or funereal images. Statuettes of ravens, gargoyles, and other bizarre creatures and mythical beasts were arranged neatly throughout the chambers. Black silk and velvet drapes ornamented the walls, massive, ceiling high bookcases covered an entire wall; crammed with leather-bound volumes, both recent and ancient, old maps, obscure manuscripts of heretical and heathen scholars banned by Vatican, books of history, masonry and architecture, poetry and philosophy…One wooden bookcase in particular was vastly dominated by rows and rows of musical texts and librettos, stacks of music history and complete works of opera. All illuminated and shadowed by dozens of candelabras holding off-white candles that gave off a faint perfume of sandalwood. Thick musky incense was burned to help keep the smell of mould and slight mustiness that lingered in the air, over all, the cavern resembled a temple, rather than a "house".

The dominant feature of the entire place, however, was the colossal pipe-organ, surrounded by tall black and white candles, adding to the gloomy and strange ambience.

The biggest transformation was the Phantom, of course. Dangerously so…From noble beginnings, through humble sufferings, to the present image and attitude of a fiendish musical genius, Erik was elegantly inhuman in every way one could think of.

A white leather half masque Erik had fashioned out of an expressionless, theatrical mask he discovered when he had first found refuge in these halls, now covered his deformity.

He had maintained his bond with Antoinette Giry, now the head ballet mistress, though they rarely conversed, their silence spoke volumes of mutual respect and understanding. One night, she had introduced him to that close friend of hers, a Swedish violinist named Gustav Daae, a bohemian, unkempt musician who escaped his misery and mourning for a dead wife through copious amounts of laudanum –Erik's suspicions of his laudanum abuse were confirmed the moment he had caught the man's fetid scent, but an honourable and trustworthy soul. Gustav had at first been shocked by Erik's masked visage and predatory aura, but soon the eccentrique swede dismissed Erik's physical ugliness, focusing on the brilliant mind underneath. Their mutual interest –Erik's obsession, more likely- in music had brought them together in an awkward companionship, as for his little daughter, Erik had never seen the girl, for his visits were always conducted in ungodly hours. Rarely did Erik leave his underworld, but when he did, it was to visit Gustav, nights spent in his company were filled with music, long philosophical debates and generous amounts of red wine.

Tonight, however, was going to be a long night.

The last night of a friendship.

A friendship Gustav had come to cherish, and Erik considered worthy of his time.

Fates had always the last laugh, as angels wept and demons wailed.

Fates were ready to hurl their unsuspecting victims into the purgatory.

Into a paradise destroyed.

By Love unrequited.

* * *

**That's it for now...I know Erik's lair's described heaps more differently in this story, but it's for a reason, trust me. This is the end of PG-13 part, I think. I'm seriously debating making this story darker than I've originally planned. More tragedy, angst and madness I'm thinking here, but I'm always open to your suggestions. There -may- be a happy ending, sort of, but I'm not sure as of yet. I will update again soon, but I need your feedback, however, so don't forget to review please! I want to create a story you will enjoy, and I can't do that without your reviews:)**


	5. One Last Wish

**Hey everyone! Thank you SOO much for the reviews, they make my day!**

**Avid Phanfic Reader: No need to apologize for the long reviews, I LOVE them and I love hearing your opinions! Where Erik's concerned, I'm not into fluffyness either, but that's just me. Rest assured, there will definitely be a STRONG element of ROMANCE in this story, but not the rose-tinted kind. I'm a sucker for dark, tragic romances. Regarding the treasures, all I can say is everything will be explained in good time. I agree with you whole-heartedly on Raoul issue also, I do not plan on portraying him as a snivelling,cowardly fop, but rather a wilful, righteous knight in a shining armour, whois brave -and foolish- enough togo up against a powerfully dark, strong and dominant character as Erik, if he wasn't, how could he be able to survive that watery tomb and go through other disastrous events that would break a lesser man? Indeed a worthy foe for Erik. As for the happy ending, all I can say is, wait and see. **

* * *

"**I rave no more 'gainst Time or Fate,**

**For lo! My own shall ne'er come to me,**

**Yet- Who doth my future narrate?**

**Dim the lights- I cannot see!**

**Bright forth ye Shadow-**

**With whom danceth thou?"**

**-Bring forth Ye Shadow, Theatre of Tragedy**

"**Death- oh! Fair and 'guiling copesmate Death!**

**Be not a malais'd beggar; claim this bloody jester!**

**Burrow to the trothplight with the Night and Devil-**

**Bid him to league with me- forsooth, merry to 'come 'twill."**

**-Fair and 'Guiling Copesmate Death, Theatre of Tragedy**

* * *

A violent gust of wind entered the room, the lit candles flickered wildly, though no breeze could penetrate the sealed windows. The curtains rustled quietly as the shadows danced across the walls in greeting to the dark presence that had just entered the room.

Gustav's eyes slid open wearily, as a skeletal touch of the unnatural breeze caressed his skin ominously, like a silent whisper alerting him to the impending doom.

The violinist glanced about, unnerved, his emaciated body shook, his weak heart beating in rhythm to the slithering shadows' silent, haunting melody.

He thought for a moment, that he faintly detected the smell of sulphur and brimstone…

"So, I am to meet my maker at last. Tell me, Is that you, Mephistopheles, finally here to collect your debt, to take my sinful soul back to Hell with you…?" A mere whisper, resigned.

"Perhaps…" A voice like silk gliding over the senses, seemingly evoking more darkness, echoing with a haunting softness throughout the chamber… just barely to make his presence known.

A faint smile curled Gustav's ashen lips, the owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows.

"But mine eyes behold an image so deep and dark, I thought, my friend, Mephisto preferred to appear in bright reds and golds, like a proud unfallen lucifer might..."

"Mayhap he decided to favour black also, for as lucifer falleth, he falleth from garish golds bright lights… it seems he'd rather blend better with the night." Offered the deep, lyrical voice with a verse of his own.

"Oh it's a great delight my lord, but alas, last time I checked, Mephisto did not wear a mask."

"He does now." Said Erik, with a half smile gracing his sculpted lips. Striding a couple of steps over to the bed where Gustav lay, he looked down at the man's sweat dampened, frail body, wasting away from his illness.

In addition to the dizzying scent of laudanum, and salt fragranced sweat, there was another smell that lingered about the bed, slowly spreading into the stuffy room.

A scent reminiscent of the grave.

"Well, with or without the mask, you seem to fit the description regardless." Remarked Gustav, a faint smile upturning the bluish lips.

Erik tilted his head to one side slowly, regarding the violinist's drawn, melancholy features with faint interest, and a nagging feeling that was quite unfamiliar…

He pitied the dying man.

Indeed a pity the world should lose such a talent.

What a waste.

"I'm glad you came…" Gustav's voice trailed off as he began to cough, specks of blood staining his lips.

Reaching for the pitcher beside the bed, Erik refilled the glass with fresh water and handed it to Gustav.

Trembling fingers clasped around the glass gratefully. After a couple of sips, he wiped his bloodied lips with his sleeve and leaned back against the pillows.

"Erik, I won't make it. He's coming…the chariot… the black steeds… their blazing eyes…I won't survive the night."

"That's not a very Christian thought, Gustav. May I hazard a guess and say that the laudanum has addled your wits beyond repair? Shouldn't you be hallucinating a harem of nuns? " Erik commented with a quiet tinge of humour in his voice of satin.

A slight chuckle escaped the pale, cracked lips. "You're quite twisted my friend, I'm afraid I shall die tonight from mirth, but not from plague and fright."

"Is that such a bad thing, really, to meet your maker with a smile on your face?" Inquired Erik, his voice still light and gentle, but his face expressionless, though not blank… it was as if a thick layer of ice frosted the surface with a disciplined control, holding the bubbling volcano of his emotions tightly and expertly in check.

Gustav's chuckle soon dissolved into another fit of coughing that left him shaking for a wheezing breath.

"Do not be afraid." Erik said, a rare, and soothing tenderness tracing his deep, low voice.

This startled Gustav more than his doomed fate, for the tone of the Opera Ghost's mellifluous, faintly accented French was beyond soft, downright otherworldly. He felt himself give in to the blissfully comforting sensation of his words, like a dream lulling him into sleep…then he reluctantly shook the feeling off, sighing deeply.

"I'm not afraid for myself, but for Christine…" said Gustav mournfully.

Erik stared at the man, pondering him a long moment, his white mask gleaming softly in the candlelight.

"She was naught but a tiny babe when her mother died. I'm the only family she has…"

"Antoinette will take good care of her. She will be safe in the opera." Said Erik quietly, his gaze straying to the man's vein riddled, gaunt hands. _So, that's what Death does to a musician's hands…I should rather take my own life than succumb to such a slow, tortuous end._

Gustav breathed a sigh and glanced sideways to the Phantom, his lips parted slightly, as if wanting to say something…but no words came out. The violinist's thin fingers fidgeted nervously and instinctively upon the blankets.

"Christine's too young to understand…She's a very sensitive child, unlike her mother, God bless her soul. She will need guidance, Erik, someone to guide her in the right direction…someoneshe can trust and rely on, someone strong who can protect her from the Devil himself…" Gustav paused to cough before carrying on.

Erik continued his silent vigilance, black leather gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back as his chill gaze settled on the violinist's face once again.

"I told her…that when I'm gone, an angel will come for her from heaven to protect and guide her…The Angel of Music."

Eyes of grey frost narrowing to slits, masked face unreadable. Alarmingly so.

"Why did you lie?" The question was uttered casually, indifferently, but beneath the roughened velvet, was simply disappointment.

"What would you have me do Erik! She's only a child, innocent and naive, how could I shatter her dreams and refuse her teary-eyed pleas by simply dismissing her wish for an angel when I'm gone?" The sick man replied with a voice raised in sorrow and frustration, panting from his exertion.

Erik stared at him.

A simple, withering stare that spoke volumes.

Gustav winced. "That… that's the reason I wished to talk to you tonight." He began, somewhat shakily. "Antoinette has Meg, she can't always be there for Christine, even if she wished to. You must watch over her Erik, be her guardian, her Angel of Music. That is my one last wish from you…my friend."

The mask gleamed menacingly in the low light, a dark storm raged within the grey eyes, though he was silent, Gustav could feel the anger coming off him in waves.

"You don't know what you're saying. Do you realize the magnitude of your wish? I cannot be her _Angel_."

"Yes, you can Erik. You are… not like the others…"

"Precisely! Why me, of all people? Answer me Gustav!" Asked Erik through clenched teeth, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Before he could answer, however, Erik darted a quick glance to the door and whirled around, his black cape swishing silently as he blended into the shadows, out of sight, out of light.

Simultaneously, the door opened after a gentle knock. A little girl dressed in a white shift that looked a size too big on her tiny body, paced across the room towards the bed, her small feet bare, her thick, glossy dark auburn curls cascading down her back, tinted with an autumnal burnished gold in the candlelight, her wide light brown eyes wide in her forlorn, heart-shaped cherub's face, filled with concern.

Christine leaned her face against her father's cold hand, desperate to bring a touch of warmth to the dying man's skin. Hot tears rolled down smooth porcelain cheeks, like sunlit morning dew against Gustav's wintry and gnarled hand.

"Papa… I can't sleep. Please don't leave me…" Fear evident in her clear, musical voice as she clutched onto his hand with her small ones.

Gustav's free hand tangled in her soft curls, brushing a bouncy strand from her pale face affectionately.

"Don't worry my dear, when I'm in heaven, I shall send you the Angel of Music, remember?" Gustav cooed softly.

His pleading blue eyes darted to the shadows, where Erik was hidden.

Eyes of pale blue, an unspoken plea and despair in their depths, begging… the Angel in Shadows.

Eyes of dark blue-grey, crackling with the force of a maelstrom of emotions …was the Angel of Doom.

Furious.

And merciful.

* * *

**End of this chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed it. Next one's coming up shortly! Gawd I've got to get up for work but I just can't seem to stop writing! I know my poetique interaction between Gustav and Erik was a tad cheesy, but I couldn't really help myself. By the way my Christine will be Emmy Rossum. She's just so pretty and radiates a serene aura of innocence; a terrifique contrast to Gerry Butler's domineering darkness. Omg here's that word again! Anyhow, I'll go drool now.**

**Did I mention reviews make my day?**


	6. Music of the Unlight

**Hi everyone. Back with more Erik.My deepest gratitude to everyone who reviewed my work so far.**

**Sbkar: I'd like to apologize for my first post, due to my sleep addled brain, I failed to clarify the height issue.Reading back the chapter, I noticed, indeed, that there's an unrealistic reference to his height, Erik's 6'4 by the time he's in his mid-thirties in this story, so I re-edited the physical description bit shot through the caravan master's eyes and the scene where Erik observes his reflection.Thank you for pointing that out.As for the redemption part, even the Devil can be redeemed in my opinion. But that's the whole twist isn't it? One can be a puppet master and have their strings pulled, and vice versa, it's the whole dragon swallowing its own tail thing, the pain of conflict. That's my opinion anyways. Opera Populaire is Erik's territory, correct, but it's not his world until Christine comes into the picture.I hope this should clarifythings a bit more for you.**

* * *

**"The mind is it's own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, and a Hell of Heaven"**

**-John Milton, Paradise Lost**

* * *

Erik tore off his cape and waistcoat with a savage jerk, hurling the black garments to the ground with impotent rage. 

"Damn you Gustav! Damn you!" He hissed, pacing across the room restlessly towards the pipe organ.

"This is absurd! Sheer madness! Angel of Music! Angel…"

_You have been many things, why not now an angel?_

Erik stilled, ear pricked up to the faint whisper, the softly flowing like Ambrosia through his veins. Hawklike grey gaze scanned the dimly lit cavern, searching the darkness, but the owner of the mysterious voice could not be detected, not even by his keen awareness.

In fact, the voice seemed to be coming from every direction and none.

_Why so silent, Erik?_ Breathed the disembodied voice, sensually, teasingly.

"Who are you! Show yourself this instant! Or I swear, when I find you-and I will find you, I shall extract a thousand screams from your intruding lips!"

_Such rage…Such fury…_ The voice said, its soft timbre growing stronger, becoming more solid…tangible.

_I am no intruder. I have always been with you, since the day you were born, Erik. Or should I say, Count Dragutinovich?_ A mocking tone stained with a smirk.

A twisted frown upon sculpted lips, rage crackling like blue-white lightning within the eyes of ancient grey.

_The Angel of Music, Erik… think of it…_

The tall, broad frame slumped into a nearby chair, long legs spread, pale hands scrubbing back through the hair of ebony roughly, simply for some kind of physical release from the tension of this insanity.

"I can't be an angel." A quiet murmur with a touch of tightness, Pain threatening to break through the mortal shell.

_You can pretend. Remember, the devil was once an angel too_…The haunting voice echoed all around him again.

Frustrated beyond coherent thought, the dark haired head snapped up, teeth bared, snarling into the dimly lit, seemingly empty cavern, and the glassy lake beyond.

"Why should I! I'm expected to be a baby sitter to a stupid, snivelling child! I have no desire to go through with this idiocy!"

_Yes you do. You're a hypocrite, Erik. In your arrogance, you punish the judgemental souls for the sins which are also yours. You scoff at the lesser life for indulging in temporal power and luxury, while you wallow in it. You blame the pitiful cattle for your misery, while it is by your hand that you condemn yourself into this Stygian prison like a leashed dog!_

The voice was vibrating with unmistakable authority now, rising with passion.

With a scream that could have split the heavens asunder, Erik leapt from the chair, hands grasped the white half-mask, tore it off savagely, flinging it to the ground.

Black Hessian booted foot kicked the masque towards the shadows invoked by a foul, unknown source.

"You dare judge me! How can I function in their world with a face like this! I am the origin of their monster legend, their Phantom! Tell me, is this a human's face? SPEAK!"

The ethereal, masculine melody resonated with a grey-cast smile indulgently like one would to a child that was asking a hundred questions about why the sky is blue.

_Your face is as it should be. Do not underestimate the Charon's Masque. But you delude yourself into thinking that your face is an obstacle in your path to glory._

Erik snorted and tugged at his black leather gloves, removing them smoothly. They joined the discarded clothes lying in a rumpled heap in a corner.

"You speak in tiresome riddles, unless you have something better than wasting my time, you might as well return whence you came, O dark and ancient one." A mocking sneer spread across sensually brooding lips.

_Such gall! Who will remember you, once you are dead, your body lowered into the black earth as a feast for the maggots? Who will remember your name, your zeal, your passion?_

_Your music?_

Somewhat disturbed by this revelation he had never bothered to contemplate, Erik's frustration and bitterness rose with a crimson tide. He slowed his breathing…restrained emotions with a controlled calm. Icily so.

"Antoinette…" He began…

And once she's dead?

Silence.

Impenetrable.

A lengthy pause that seemed to stretch beyond the borders of sanity.

_You are meant to endure the ravages of time, Erik. You were made to leave your mark upon humanity and eternity! You were born to walk as God among men! But you so desperately hold onto self-pity, self-destruction! _

"As God? What nonsense is this? I'd rather burn in Hell than pretend to be a falsely benign deity!"

_No Erik. As a Reaper! With your music as your scythe, to harvest the souls of the weak and deliver the strong to a realm where all passions are freed, all desires set loose, all fantasies undone, to be shaped and re-created to your whim! It's your birthright! _

_Only through music, Erik. _

_Your music._

Senses overloaded with an unnamed symphony, steely muscles tensed with the electrique sense of imminent violence in the air, grey eyes glowing with a bright blue fire, adding to the constant innate threat their master exuded with every motion.

Every sound.

Every single breath.

"Shut up!"

Shadows crept in from the edges of the cavern, amorphous tentacles lashed and darkness obscured the ceiling. The feeble candlelight shivered.

The voice heightened to a perfect baritone pitch.

_Immortal is your music! But don't underestimate the light, it's a useful tool to banish their fear, so the world can see your music, breathe and cry with it, bleed in joy and frenzy with it, and sing praises in your name, fall on their dirtied knees and worship you like the obedientthralls they are! _

_Only then, can your music be alive!_

Erik panted, he removed his sweat-drenched white shirt without undoing the buttons first, ripping it open, letting the buttons clatter to the ground.

He braced his booted feet, worried that the Primordial Abyss would seize him completely.

_Angel of Music you shall be._

Scarlet flames engulfed Erik's voice as it rose in an anguished groan.

"Why…WHY! It's nothing but a make-believe! Why should I suffer so Christine can have her Angel?"

_Because grand rewards require grand sacrifice._

_Look at me, Erik!_ The serpentine voice commanded.

Black strands of wet hair whipped about Erik's face, as he turned to look into the mirror, unable to defy the beckoning.

_Who are you, Erik?_ The voice demanded.

"A freak, and a madman!"

_A genius._

"The Devil's Get!"

_The Angel of Music._

"A slave!"

_A master._

Lightning blue eyes grew wide.

"NO! No…"

_Stop snivelling and pull yourself together!_

_You are perfect, Erik. Can't you see?_

"No man's perfect…"

_You are not a man, Erik, you are the ultimate form of perfection archangels strive to achieve!_

_Now, look at me, and see yourself for what you truly are!_

Face turned to the mirror once more, horrid, deformed half screaming with a thousand atrocities garnered from the depths of Erik's hatred and pain.

Perfectly complementing the heartbreakingly, breathtakingly, darkly beautiful other half.

The face of Adonis Triumphant.

The face of Euronymous enthroned.

It was perfection in a paradoxical harmony.

A divine tragedy.

_Now answer me! Who are you, Erik?_

"I am.."

_Say it!_

"No…"

_SAY IT!_

The hand clenched into a tight fist, smashing through the mirror, sending shards flying everywhere, Erik's voice was a shattering explosion to the abyssal crescendo.

"I AM GOD, AND I AM NOTHING!"

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**I hope this sheds a bit of light on the depths of Erik's maddened pain. **


	7. Sonata Noir or Angel of Music

**Hello again guys, back with more Erik, as always.**

**Malthen Tinu: Thanks, I try. : ))**

**Chantal:No more -que's, hopefully it's easier to read now.**

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**Soundtrack to this chapter:**

**Beethoven: Adagio from Moonlight Sonata,**

**Apocalyptica: (These Finnish cellists are pure genius!) In Memoriam and Beyond Time.

* * *

**

**"What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, 'This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!' Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, 'Never have I heard anything more divine'?"**

**-Friedrich Nietzsche**

**"Innocence is always unsuspicious." ****-Thomas C. Haliburton**

* * *

In the small chapel of Opera Populaire, a lone child prayed, while a lone man stood vigil in the shadows. 

A single candle was lit, illuminating the hallowed chamber softly.

Outside, only the gentle song of a drizzling rain beating against the roof could be heard.

"Papa…" Christine whispered with a ghostly timbre of loneliness, head bowed, prayer filled eyes of luminous topaz brown shimmered with silent tears, focused on the crucified saviour.

Small hand met a slightly faded, and rather worn picture of a father, much beloved and missed.

"Angel won't come, Papa."

Crystalline tears flowed down pallid cheeks, onto the pouted lips.

The Phantom, moved silently so as not to be heard, black cloak flaring behind him as he turned to observe the child, annoyed at his own nagging curiosity.

A single moment in time froze.

Eyes; the colour of Carpathian skies, fell upon little Christine.

Upon her tear-streaked delicate face framed with russet tinted auburn curls, large brown eyes, somewhat hallow, pleading a Suffering Christ.

Bitter black hatred died within, a cacophony of colours and blurred visions haunted a mind, its pain still afresh from the revelations of a most disturbing nature.

A warped soul searching desperately for a place to fit in…yearning acceptance… longing for a hand to walk with…

While others utterly stopped caring and were only empty shells going through the motions.

Outside, the rain had turned into a steady downpour, lightning flickered every few seconds.

Christine gasped in fear at the thunder's sudden and unexpected violent echo, and clasped her fingers around the small wooden crucifix she wore. She wanted to run from this eerie chapel, back up to the dormitories, and slip under her warm blankets. Instead, she stood her ground, awaiting.

_Why do you turn to Him, child…Where is He now, but sainted and chained in a Fool's false paradise, while it is I, the condemned and persecuted gargoyle who hears your plea._

Erik mused, wondering just what kind of hold this little creature had on him already. It disturbed him even as it enthralled him, drawing him from the cloak of darkness slowly near to bask in her very presence.

Christine.

So vulnerable and fragile…her childish innocence that of a lily white, expectant and demanding.

"Christine…"

Quietly he murmured, her name escaped his lips in a slow breath, resonant with an unearthly tenderness.

"Angel?" Her voice…A hymn to beauty, the virtue's song.

Her hopeful smile was a brilliant, silver moonbeam piercing the nightshades…

His call was the benevolent and warm miracle of darkness, enshrouded with gentle promise of heaven's sacred light, luring her forward…

Transfixed, garnet eyes specked with amber glanced around in search of her Angel.

The tiny chapel lit for a second by the crackling blue strike of lightning.

Earth brown and honey-gold eyes entwined with storm grey and cobalt blue gaze.

Her Angel of Music.

No feather soft alabaster wings spread in heavenly glory, not a seraphic ivory smile.

But a mask, devoid of all colours.

A masked visage of pure white to her senses.

Christine smiled brightly, face turned heavenward in boundless gratitude.

"Thank you, Papa… thank you."

"Christine, are you down there still?"

A soft glimmer of a lantern light falling across the stairway.

Meg, whispering in a conspiratorial , and rather urgent tone from the top of the stairs.

Christine gasped softly, Mme. Giry would be incensed if she ever learned of her nightly visitations to the chapel.

In the day, the Opera House was alive with a myriad of sounds, dispelling the tranquil of the chapel, so Christine had tiptoed her way down and lit a candle for her father after nightfall, when there was the least chance of being disturbed. She had forgotten how late it was, but time had lost its sense and meaning in that one miraculous moment she heard the Angel call her name.

"Coming, Meg!" she whispered, her heart seized with happiness, and turned to grab her father's picture.

She stared, unable to move, unable to think. Unable to breathe.

Beside the picture, was a flower.

A single rose the colour of a freshly fallen snow, pure, unblemished white, its green stem tied with a simpleblack silk ribbon.

* * *

**I know this chapter has been short, but I'm working on the next one already, needless to say will be a long chapter, and shall possibly be posting it sometime soonish.**

**Reviews? Yes please!**


	8. Queen of Spades

**Author's note: Hey guys, I'm finally back, I simply couldn't find the time to update from too much work. I owe my readers a big thank-you for your constructive reviews which helped me develop a kind of Erik that I hope you will appreciate. You will notice the radical change in Meg as well, I didn't want to stick with the stereotypical Meg because I think she's a hidden gem, a wasted potential and a tragic figure who's shadowed by Christine. It's only understandable given Christine is one of the main characters, but I wanted to give Meg a special place in this chapter to twist the plot further. But t****his story is NOT an Erik/Meg pairing by any means and she will feature in only a couple or so chapters.**

**PhantomInMyDreams****: First off, thank you for reading my work and reviewing. I should explain that I didn't write those detailed descriptions just for the poetic. Erik is a man who is totally ruled by passion and his raging fire is barely held in check by his tremendous willpower,and metaphorically speaking, this unhealthy restraint reflects sharply in his eyes which changes to suit his mood. : ) His eyes are indeed windows to his soul. **

**Now, on with the show!**

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_Love sees sharply, hatred sees even more sharp, but Jealousy sees the sharpest for it is love and hate at the same time_

_-Arab Proverb_

_I want to feel passion, I want to feel pain. I want to weep at the sound of your name. Come make me laugh, come make me cry... just make me feel alive._

_-Joey Lauren Adams _

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Meg Giry sat motionless on the floor, much like a statue, against the backdrop of gauzy black and grey curtains, the gossamer skirts of her lilac dress fanned out about her. Her straight ash blonde hair was brushed to a golden sheen, framing her doll-like face, cherry-dark painted lips pouted seductively, one pale eyebrow arched as her head was tilted back slightly, misty forest green eyes shining softly down at the faux human skull her hands clasped demurely in her lap, staring into the black void of its empty eye-sockets with an expression of longing. 

Erik glanced up from his sketch book every few moments to glance at his young model –no more than seventeen-, posing in obedient stillness. He had lingered on the outline of the pale hands on the skull, noting their slight tremble. Eyes narrowed to grey slits as he continued to draw in apt concentration.

Every time Erik lifted his head to inspect the young ballerina with an academic eye, Meg was compelled to meet his gaze, reflexively so, thrillingly so.

A masked face of blank perfection, eyes narrowed in professional detachedness lost in his creation. Meg wondered if his face was drawn with the same intense lines when he composed and played his music,captured in a mask of ardent rapture, like a lover passionately caressing…darkly possessing.

Many nights were this masked face haunted her dreams, after lazy afternoons of modeling for his paintings and sketches, -rather a bizarre collection of his disturbingly morbid tendencies- or fetching his food and wine, for which she was rewarded with an hour's odd, yet blissful companionship that sometimes –only sometimes- ended with him telling her strange and fantasticalSlavic tales in that darkly soft and deep voice of his.

These moments delighted Meg, excited and provoked her own imagination to weave an illusory realm of villains and heroes of her own. Of all these Slavic fairy tales, one in particular stood in Meg's mind, the horrid Russian legend of Baba Yaga; the black goddess, ancient and fearsome bony crone with iron teeth. Which was faintly reminiscent of the story about the exceedingly wealthy, nameless French noble who had supposedly hauntedErik's cavern a century ago;a vengeful and lustful woman corrupted by greed and easy temptation; who bargained with the Devil to curse the vain object of her unrequited love to eternal damnation.

Erik called her the Queen of Spades for some strange reason, and as Meg stared into the faux skull that she so lovingly held in her hands, a slight shudder ran down her spine.The ghastly visage; the reminder of Death's ultimate supremacy, stripping one of all earthly chains and unmaking one's existence, did not bother her however. There was something else that ate away at her soul, that incited emotions of unknown nature.

Erik never played his music for her. Not a single note, not even a trifle humming. Since he had taken Christine under his wing in the guise of some celestial tutor, time spent in his company diminished to a mere half hour once a week. A frightening foe hounded her now.

Jealousy.

"Erik?"

The Phantom gave no indication of acknowledging for a few moments as his pencil moved deftly against the off-white parchment in brisk, elegant strokes.

Restless lips formulated the question that had been burning in her mind for a long time.

"Why do you never play for me, Erik?" Meg asked with a touch of sadness.

Erik sketched furiously, seemingly oblivious to the young girl's distress.

"Erik!" She demanded rather impatiently.

"Meg, you know I prefer absolute silence while I'm drawing. Now please cease your idle chatter so I can finish in peace." He said in a low voice.

"But this is important Erik…"

"No mademoiselle, irrelevant is the right word for it."

"That's not true." Meg's mouth creased in a frown.

Brief silence.Pencil scratching against the paper.

"You are enamored of Christine, aren't you?" Meg asked quietly. Slender fingers traced slowly over the skull's forehead.

Erik stiffened, his eyes fixed on Meg instantly…chillingly. "I think, my dear, this conversation is highly improper, and is therefore over." Scolded he, like a parent to a child.

Meg's eyes flared with a sudden green fire, fingers halted over the skull's left eye-socket.

"Oh, a thousand pardons! Forcing me to sit for hours in utter boredom for your personal amusement and serve you like an errand-girl isn't improper, but talking about your precious pupil is! There is no logic to your twisted sense of morality, Erik, or lack thereof!"

Meg instantly regretted her outburst, stricken with guilt; Christine was her best friend.She felt like a betrayer, a traitor.

Erik regarded the young Giry in mute anger, and finally broke the awful silence which had spoken for him for the past few minutes.

The sketch-book closed with an abrupt thud. Meg shifted her eyes away and bit her bottom lip nervously as he cut his stormy gaze on her. Being the target of his fury was like suddenly stepping into the hot furnace of the inferno.

She felt the edges of her soul getting singed by a white-hot fire.

Then, to her surprise, Erik's mouth curled into a cynical smile.

"I believe, you yourself are intimately acquainted with immorality, mademoiselle. Tell me, my dear Meg, does your mother know of your dirty little secret about a certain…_shopping expedition_?"

Though a reluctant uneasiness flickered in her eyes, Meg feigned indifference and surprise at the same time trying desperately to hold onto a rapidly crumbling composure.

"I don't know what you're implying…"

"I shall do you a favour, and remind you, my dear, of your little…rendezvous with Comte de Guillemot?"

_My God…How can you possibly know…You never step out of the opera…_

"I don't recall." Meg said stiffly.

Erik stood, his hands once more fitted in black leather gloves as he made his way over to her at a slow, languid pace.

"It seems I will have to further refresh your memory…"

Erik slowly circled her, his eyes fixed on her the whole time, burning her skin and sending goose bumps all over.

"I do seem to recall a vividly intimate kiss..." His voice lowered…sensually so.

_Wishing it were your lips, you heartless bastard._

"…of giggling like a simple coquette while he filled your head with false promises… with the ardent enthusiasm of a common harlot,I might add."

_Wishing it was your voice that was speaking those promises…even if they were false, I would have gladly allowed myself to be fooled…_

"He only brought me a bouquet of flowers after the show like a true gentleman, what was I supposed to do? Why would I refuse his harmless attractions?

"No, of course not, why would you? While you can play the role of a perfect harlot, indeed, your performance was truly admirable, Meg. You seemed to be enjoying his amorous affections very much so." Erik purred darkly.

Meg's cheeks burned hot crimson.

"It's none of your business!"

"Just like my own personal life is none of yours." He concluded smoothly.

Meg, frustrated by the fact that he managed to elude her questioning about Christine, and at the same time turn the tables on her, was left speechless.  
"In this case, however, it is my business, Meg. You will not see the Comte again.."

"What you're asking of me is perfectly ridiculous!" she protested feebly.

" I am not asking, I am simply giving you an order. An illicit dalliance with a married aristocrat is not only scandalous, but highly dangerous."

Meg was annoyed by his lecturing tone of voice, her anger overpowering her fear. She rose to her feet with an uncharacteristic clumsiness and stared up to the looming darkness that was Erik.

"I'm not your slave!"

"But you already are, my dear. If you value your health, you had better obey my commands." He drawled.

"Are your threatening me!"

"I believe I am, mademoiselle, and it's only for your own good. I shall not have you bring disgrace to your mother's good name."

He turned with a flourish of his cape, preparing to leave the empty dorm by whatever mysterious means he had in mind.

"Erik…" Meg called to him, hesitantly.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"How did you know I was with the Comte?"

Erik studied her for a quiet moment, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"I didn't."

* * *

Christine woke up exactly at midnight. Witching hour. She needed all her energy for the gala of Hannibal tomorrow, but she slipped on her thin robe and grabbing a small gas-lamp, she tiptoed her way past Meg's bed, walking out into the darkened hallway. Opaque silence prevailed in the ballet dormitory. 

She descended the stone staircase into the chapel, banishing the creeping darkness with her lamp,proceeding to light a candle by her father's plaque…

In this chapel where her Angel answered her prayers years ago, and since then had mentored her with his haunting voice; a perfect baritone that would put Muses to shame and evoke a variety of unfathomable feelings with his overbearing, phantasmal presence.

Seven years of white roses with a black ribbon.

Until now...

The white rose in the chapel had been replaced with a perfectly shaped, dark crimson one, the colur of congealed blood.

Around its stem was the black silk ribbon.

Candle light shone softly in the chapel's stained glass window, springing the cross-bearing angel to life with its gentle radiance.

His tender benevolence, his firm guidance…

Quietly she called into the darkness, her voice quivering.

"Come to me, Angel…"

* * *

Erik sat at his pipe organ, scribbling fervently the notes that had flooded his mind, conjured up by the vision of Christine Daae. 

Christine.

For the past seven years, he had sat here before the pipe organ like this, breathing heavily the passions that assaulted his being over and over, demanding sweet release from the tension of her close proximity when he had tutored her.

It was torture like no other.

When he watched her from box five, world ceased to exist when Christine stepped onto the stage, her body bending and submitting with a unique grace to the music.

His heart ceased to beat when she stood so near, with dream-filled eyes searching the emptiness for a sign of her guardian.

His music was complete when their voices entwined.

Christine became his music.

He rose from his seat and walked up over to the heavy, purple-red velvet curtain behind which stood the monument to his heart's desire.

Drawing the curtain, he stared at the life-size mannequin fitted with a wedding dress of purest white silk and lace, ivory beads and shimmering pearls, with a grand veil of sheer white gossamer that waited to crown Christine's glorious auburn curls.

The bride of a false angel.

Erik traced his fingertip slowly over the mannequin's delicate brow line, primal grey eyes glittering with a fierce desire that left him shaking violently.

He had composed for her, bled for her, lived and died a thousand times over every night in that black swan bed, aching from love unfulfilled, dreaming of her lithe beauty tangled in the lustrous scarlet sheets.

Tangled in his dark fantasies.

His love...a fixed obsession for which he wouldn't hesitate to kill.

Parted lips uttered the words wrathfully… "You're mine!"

It was then, Erik heard a faint whisper echoing in the distance…like a quiet conformation of his blunt statement of possession.

"Angel…"

* * *

Meg's eyes fluttered open, she stirred sleepily beneath the covers and turned to her side, curling in a ball and sinking deeper into the blankets. It was only the beginning of Autumn, but already the cold had begun to torment her flesh with its icy touch. 

Cold that was delight to Erik.

Erik.

She had to watch him love another whom she felt strong kinship to...

Wishing she could claim her place…

Nothing offered her comfort, no salve for her soul.

Meg looked over at Christine's bed, squinting in the moonlit darkness.

It was empty.

She screwed her eyes shut and seized by a dark impulse, prayed.

She knew God would never accept her sacrilege.

"Queen of Spades ..."


	9. L'Amour des Tenebreux

**Thanks for the positive feedback on Meg and the chapter, you guys are truly amazing, and keep me writing for more. And more! This chapter contains a slightly gentelmanly Erik, but I intend to keep the Erik gentleness/gallantry -not fluffyness- to a minimum and continue full on with the dark progress. Hope everyone's happy with that.**

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"**Once one becomes interested in the game, there is no knowing where one will stop."**

**-Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liaisons Dangereuses

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"**I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion,**

**I have shudder'd at it.**

**I shudder no more.**

**I could be martyr'd for my religion**

**Love is my religion**

**And I could die for that.**

**I could die for you."**

**-John Keats

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**

Erik leaned back in his throne-like chair, elbows resting on the arms of the chair, gloved fingers absently stroking his clean-shaven chin, eyes staring out across the shimmering lake, the grey irises fogged.

Vacant.

For one moment, he thought he had heard Christine calling to him…

Why did he give her that damnable red rose? The flower of love.

When did this elaborate masquerade begin? Plunging the unwilling characters into a false dream, strings pulled, chains secured…

At first it seemed harmless enough; Erik was convinced he was indeed fulfilling a dying man's last wish. However distasteful it might had sounded.

When the child came to the opera to live, tearful and broken, he had felt his heart stir in reluctant sympathy for her loss, taking on the role of a benevolent, fathering entity, honouring Gustav's memory.

He had little patience for her sobs, and it took great restraint on his part not to snarl the bitter revelation of him being only a man and not an angel whenever she addressed the dark emptiness with a smile, calling him her angel. This had irritated him immensely, but he continued to play along with the charade.

When he heard her gentle, sweet voice singing a Christmas carol by her father's memorial, he had been pleasantly astonished and decided to cultivate her obvious talent.

Lessons were conducted in utter secrecy, a white rose left afterward as a token of fatherly appreciation.

His pity for her conquered his impatience gradually.

Sometimes, he had sung to her when she couldn't sleep in stormy nights. She was always afraid of the dark and chaos and wintry weather she disliked, while he exulted in them.

She was only a child, and all he felt toward her was pity. Simple as that.

Even as he watched her cross the threshold of childhood into adulthood, the rather scrawny, shy and timid child maturing into a graceful young woman, her beauty flourished with dizzying speed.

Even then, she had held no appeal to Erik as a paramour. No, the very thought had chilled his blood, he had never been gallant or chivalrous by any means, and though perverted as he was, he could never bring himself to defile her innocent soul.

It was blasphemy, and even he would not descend so low and bring her down with him.

When, then, did he realize with bittersweet clarity that he was flawlessly manipulated by an unseen force delighting in tormenting him at every opportunity?

When did Cupid's venomous arrow pierce his heart to bleed and bleed…and bleed…

….In love with her?

She was only seventeen, for heaven's sake, still a child.

He was old enough to be her father, each passing moment pulling him closer to the oblivion's skeletal grasp.

His devious romantic designs and fiendish passions disgusted Erik beyond reason.

Grinding his teeth as anger bubbled forth like molten lava, scorching him in the process, the grey tempest of his eyes swept over the entire cavern, the miniature models of the opera he had made, the dark furnishings, the massive pipe-organ, the sombre accents that decorated his isolated kingdom of music, then strayed to the idol of his unclean shame…his inamorato…

The mannequin; Christine's lifeless twin garbed in that heavenly white bridal dress, the soft, chaste smile upon rose-bud lips demurely veiled by that ethereal waterfall of white gossamer, a simple, yet elegant bouquet of white lilies and roses in her pale hands.

Then his eyes drifted toward the uncovered mirror. The masked reflection snarled furiously…quietly.

"Damn you."

For thirty seven years he had lived with this obnoxious, abhorrent and loathsome face…This inhumane, gruesome face…

How could any body look upon that face without trembling with dread and disgust?

How could Christine?

How could she love…

Love was not delicate, poetic, understanding or gentle and tender.

Love was cruel, hungry, profound, wanton and demanding.

Love was a plague upon his reason.

Plagued he was, possessed, fallen at the expense of his sanity.

Past the point of no return.

And again, like a sweet dream, he heard her voice, this time clearer, sharper, resonant with a heaven like tenderness, calling to a false seraph.

* * *

"Angel?" The faint whisper echoed throughout the chapel. 

The lamplight was dimming fast, until it died,the candle flame flickered once and it too died.

An unnatural blackness descended over the entire chamber, blotting out even the shaft of moonlight that drifted through the stained glass window.

Christine's eyes widened in panic, though it made no difference in the impenetrable, abnormal darkness. Fear crept in, crushing her heart.

She stumbled through blindly, completely lost her sense of direction, groping her way across the chapel toward the…

"I'm here, Christine."

Christine stopped, forgot how to breathe. What she heard was not the usual spectral echo, but rather a clear, deep and strong voice, pulsing with power and mystery.

Once again wrapped in the security of his vigilance, Christine felt relief flood over her in a sweet warmth.

"Angel! What's happening? I can't see a thing…Where are you?" A fearful sigh.

Erik stepped up soundlessly behind her, his presence enough of an announcement of his closeness.

"What are you doing down here this late, Christine?"

She quivered, at the rich, alluring black velvet voice, toneless, without a timbre of emotion.

Her delicate nostrils flared at the spiced, earthen scent of his murky dark musk, surrounding her in a fine mist.

Her palpitating heart was a symphony in itself, its rhythm gathering up speed.

She sensed him a mere few inches to the distance perhaps, his close proximity overbearing and slightly threatening, like unhurled lightning.

"I wanted to hear your voice again…" A hushed murmur.

Silence triumphed, stifling and maddening.

Broken by a feather soft touch of gloved fingertips brushing against her hand…

"Angel…Please don't leave me."

Erik lightly clasped her hand, with a wince hidden by the darkness of the chapel, bringing her palm up to his lips and brushing his lips over her life lines, with unexpected tenderness.

Christine sighed contentedly.

"Then you shall have your wish, Christine. Music it shall be."

Erik took her by the hand, guiding her steps, leading her toward the entrance of a secret route, descending downward into his lair.

Christine followed behind him, holding onto his hand tightly. He certainly had a fine sense of how to move in the dark.

"Wait…" she whispered. His steps came to an abrupt halt.

She was frightened.

And fascinated.

Where was he taking her? Who was this living angel, made of flesh and blood?

Was this one moment that… if she didn't take her chance, would be wasted, gone forever, because of her fear?

Questions could wait, her hesitation faded as his grasp tightened reassuringly.

She had decided.

"Take me with you." She breathed.

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**Next chapter's on its way. Reviews make my day. And night.**


	10. Dark Dream's Descent

**Author's note: To all of my readers/reviewers: I love you all! This chapter's a tad long so do excuse me. I know I've described Erik many times before, but this chapter shall be from Christine's POV, sort of.I won't switch to the actual POV's for another good few chapters or so, as the tension builds, I will introduce the characters' monologues.Unmasking won't take place until the next chapter, the night of Christine's star performance, I'll be introducing Raoul as well, in that regard I stayed true to the actual story. It's just that I wanted to give a little more depth and background to Erik and Christine's relationship –or lack there of- . Chantal, I'm a huge E/C shipper as well, those two are worlds apart, united by music, perfect! BUT…but, we shall see in the end if Erik's -grotesque/dark/obsessive- love conquers Christine's heart, as his music conquered her mind…Off topic, but that last scene in the movie always blows me away, such passion, such undying devotion...-sighs- anyway, on with the story.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, never have, never will. Gerry Butler though, I dunno...-swoons-

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_**"Love surfeits not, Lust likes a glutton dies;  
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies."**_

_**-Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis

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"**_Music is well said to be the speech of angels; in fact, nothing among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine. It brings us near to the infinite."_**

**_-_****_Thomas Carlyle

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_**

"_**And hell open'd its doors,**_

_**Yet what was 'fore my eyes**_

_**But if not the brightest Light?"**_

_**-Theatre of Tragedy

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**_

As Erik and Christine descended further down, darkness lifted, gave way to light, much to Christine's relief.

Led by this imposing, magnetic angel, Christine discovered a secret, chimerical world of eerie catacombs adorned with carved gargoyles, a vast silvery lake with swirling mist. A maroon curtain lifted, iron portcullis rose, dripping water, revealing Paradiso beyond.

Christine hadn't realized her strange angel had stepped out of the boat, now secured to the shore, and began to light candles. Bewitched, she let her eyes pay homage in solemn reverence to the scenery before her.

A Phantasmagorical tapestry of dark and sombre tones softly illuminated by amber candlelight, richly blended with picturesque disorder, in harmony with the dusky furnishings, wondrous ornaments and the massive pipe organ, ceremonially arranged in a background of grandiose masonry of the enormous cavern.

Christine felt small, vulnerable, insignificant, and insubstantial in this grand sanctuary of her angel.

Her angel…

Radiant in his black light.

At a first glance, he seemed nothing but a tall, ebon silhouette animated by Night itself, for he was clad entirely in black except for a snow white shirt.

Black leather boots adorned his feet, black satin trousers clung to his long, powerful legs, his shirt obscured by a deep black vest and jet black cravat folded about his neck elegantly, only the white collars visible, a gold trimmed brocade obsidian waistcoat fitted his broad torso perfectly, complemented by a resplendent black velvet cape, its embroidered collar flicked up.

His hair, swept-back and slicked down with a prominent widow's peak, was the shade of lightless midnight, gleaming a glossy onyx, contrasting sharply with the stark alabaster of his skin, his startling, steel blue-grey eyes, and the white leather mask that covered almost the entire right side of his face.

The mask was ominously cold, grim and imposing…

Perplexed and afraid, her deep brown gaze focused on the uncovered side of his face.

Christine stared, her eyes huge in her face.

_God in Heaven…_

He was beautiful. Wickedly so…Entrancingly so…

She had seen her share of handsome, even gorgeous men in the opera, among the dancers or the audience…but the face before her was nothing like she'd ever seen.

This was not a softly pretty face of a comely dandy, or a classic, charmingly good looking visage of a storybook knight on a white horse and a flashing sword.

His face, -or the half of it- was enthralling, magnetic, harsh and strong… His was the kind of refined, striking beauty that brought to mind frozen northlands, frigid Mother Russia, dark and mighty deities of pagan tales…Austere, completely controlled, brimming with enigmatic power.

A righteous white knight? Michelangelo's David ? A kind, fair angel?

What a joke in comparison to this dark god of music.

Why, then, the mask? Of what use was it? Adornment?

Hardly so.

Maybe concealing mercifully a scar?

A scar nasty enough to be hidden behind a mask?

Awestruck, Christine felt sick dread rise within her, her head swam, her mouth went dry, yet she felt her skin burning hot and flushed, tingling all over.

Why did her mind and body react with such fervour to his nearness?

Slow, deliberate steps carried him over to her, lifting her out of the boat effortlessly, strong arms holding her with a firm grip against him. Christine instantly wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing in his unique earthen musk, revelling in his encompassing warmth.

Gracefully, she was set back down on the ground. The stone floor beneath her white stockinged feet was pleasantly cool and smooth.

Then, to her surprise, the subliminal cavern was further glorified by music.

His music.

The Music of The Night.

His voice was shadowy soft, a silken phantasm, deep and intoxicating.

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination…_

There was a faint accent in his flowing French as he sang to her. An unfamiliar accent that conjured up dizzyingly high, snow-capped mountains reflected on the glacial surface of a crystalline lake, surrounded by a dense and ancient woodland, bleeding into a brooding grey sky.

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour…_

As his ambrosial voice soared, so did Christine, her eyes closing in rapture, transcending into a mystical realm of kaleidoscopic pictures hazy and blurry at first.

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day…_

Soon the mists parted, the landscape stretched before her vision was a breathtaking garden beneath a starlit darkest blue sky, where flowers only bloomed at night. She inhaled their dusky perfume; myrrh, Indian musk. Red patchouli, ambergris, jasmine…

_Close your eyes and surrender yourself to your darkest dreams…_

She found herself standing amidst this strange, spectacular garden, flowers uncrushed beneath her feet, dressed in a long, flowing gown of white silk embroidered with tiny blue flowers, free of the tortuous restraint of the whalebone corset, her feet stockingless and bare, her waist length curls unbound and adorned with a crown of violets, the fragrant summer breeze toying with her hair playfully.

_Open up your mind; let your fantasies unwind…_

Christine raised her arms heavenward, her face bathed in moonlight, spinning around gaily, laughing in joy, marvelling in the elemental beauty surrounding her.

The archangel wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, his huge black wings spread across her protectively, hands gliding over the thin fabric of her dress, caressing her ribs ever so softly, sending ripples of heat through her unresisting body.

_Touch me, trust me…savour each sensation!_

Christine, her eyes shut, leaned back into his embrace, her hand reaching up to his face, encountering freshly shaven skin of his cheek, her fingers exploring the smooth texture eagerly, shivering in delight. Every inch of her being was painfully acute to his body pressed close to hers.

_You alone can make my song take flight…_

Velvet lips brushing against her ear tantalizingly, a deep breath shuddered out of her.

_Help me make the music of the night…_

_Christine..._

Spellbound and stunned, Christine did not make a single sound, she was afraid of breathing even, afraid to let go of the dream…

"Christine."

The music was over, the Garden of Eden nothing but an illusion…and his voice was a firm whisper.

Still semi-delirious from his music, luminous brown eyes slid open reluctantly, gazing up at…

The Angel of Music.

Winter-grey eyes were shaded with warm, pure blue, heavy with emotion, strange lights emanated from within…

He stared down at her, his thumb swept across her bottom lip, which was flushed to a dark rose, swollen and tensed with anticipation…

Abruptly, he turned away from her, the enchantment was undone.

Christine's trembling hand rose over her chest, trying to slow the restless pounding of her heart.

"Angel." She called, her voice sweet, low, like flowing nectar of the goddess to his senses.

Erik's sculpted features were set in stern, grave lines. Shadows flickered menacingly across his mask.

"My name is Erik, and I'm no angel." He said smoothly, sullenly.

Christine blinked, her mind flooded with a horde of possibilities…and questions.

True, he was only a man.

But, could a man possess a mindwith suck skill, make suchmagnificent, glorious musicand transport a soul to a realm of divine beauty?

Christine walked up to him quietly, laying a hand on his arm, feeling the firm muscles tense beneath the fabric of his waistcoat.

"Erik, look at me, please."

Hearing his name from her lips was ….divine.

His eyes drifted to her, regarding her with a frown upon his brow.

"Nobody has ever made me feel like this before, and I thank you for that."

A soft smile played upon her lips.

"And how did I make you feel exactly, mademoiselle Daae?" He demanded in a harsh tone.

Erik quieted his demons, quenching his raging fires.

Christine stepped further into the sanctum, glancing about curiously, then turned back to him.

"I can't describe it, I'm sorry." She said gently. "All I can say is, your music is the stuff of dreams, monsieur. It always has been."

Erik bowed in mock gratitude, a bitter half smile on his lips.

"Thank you, mademoiselle. You made the Opera Ghost's night, truly."

Apprehension and fear dawned in her eyes, the brown depths filled with awed terror.

"You're the Phantom of the Opera!" She staggered backward in sudden trepidation, face turned deathly pale.

"Brava, mademoiselle. I was wondering when you would figure that out." He said sourly, his voice touched by anguish.

Christine sighed, her lashes lowered,pondering...

Erik advanced on her, slowly, cautiously.

Christine tensed and glanced up, crestfallen, clearly bewildered by these events.

"Christine, whatever have I done to distress you? I have endeavoured to make you at ease, in every fashion I have control over."

Bitter silence.

A fallen angel, plunged on scorched wings.

Her small hand travelled to the left side of his face, gentle fingers touching his chin, trailing upwards fingertips grazing his black sideburn, her palm finally resting on his cheek.

Erik flinched ever so slightly at her delicate touch…He stared at her in a moment in utter shock, his eyes sliding partly closed as he watched her face light up in a smile.

A gloved hand rested lightly over her own warm one, gently drawing it to his lips to place a kiss to her palm.

Her large eyes were serene, her smile trusting.

Would she look the same, he wondered, if...when, she saw what nightmares lied beneath that mask of his...

Erik dropped her hand silently, his lips compressed in annoyance, as well as a nagging feeling he was doing something more heinous than all previous crimes committed.

"Come, I will take you back up, you need all the rest you can get for tomorrow night's gala."

Of course, Chalumeau's Hannibal.

Ballet de Corps had been rehearsing all day, Christine had been looking forward to a good long night's rest, but sleep had not come. Till midnight she had tossed and turned in bed, finally rising to visit her father's memorial.

And now, she was down here, in this subterranean abode, with …him.

The Opera Ghost.

A slight look of concern entered his eyes as he gazed at her.

How he could stare without seeming to be rude was beyond Christine.

She brushed her thick curls back off her face self consciously and nodded.

Seeing the shadows deepening here and there, Christine wanted nothing more than the comfort of her warm bed, away from this strange place, this strange man.

Yet…A part of her that she thought never existed wanted to stay down here with him.

Forever.

Questioning eyes searched the masked face.

The answer was simple.

"Tomorrow, Christine…"


	11. Withering Roses, Blooming Orchids

**Author's note: Hey guys, sorry for the long wait, too much work, to top it all off, I've got the flu, been feeling really yucky recently. I decided to post an update regardless, and am happy to announce a long chapter -an Erik fest- will be following this one tomorrow.**

**Morgan LeFay:Yes, the spacebar is evil and it hates me:) **

**Disclaimer: Don't own POTO. Enough said.

* * *

**

_**"What difference is there between us, save a restless dream that follows my soul but fears to come near you?"  
-Kahlil Gibran, "The Captive King"

* * *

**_

Roses…Bouquet upon bouquet of roses from admirers filled the Prima Donna's dressing room, surrounding the young soprano seated at the vanity with their heady, pale pink perfume.

No striking red locks were reflected in the gilt-framed mirror, for the first time in these many years, no heavily made-up face set in a perpetual scowl of dissatisfaction, or perpetual smirk of vainglory, amidst the glittering jewels or expensive furs.

No, the image captured within the crystal depths of the mirror was one of youth, of northern beauty.

The soft glow of the candles glimmered in the tiny, star-shaped hair pins in thick auburn hair curling softly around an ashen, thoughtful and unsmiling face, in the elegant silver embroidery of the white dress, in tawny brown eyes, as their owner stared back in blank, morose contemplation.

The whole day had passed like a whirlwind of motions, a miraculous play in itself it seemed, in which Christine had been both the player and spectator, delighting in the role thrust upon her and watching from afar at the same time.

It began with Monsieur Lefevre's sudden announcement of retirement, the arrival of the new managers Monsieurs Firmin and Andre, then the "accident" where La Carlotta nearly crushed to death, followed by the little drama of her stormy departure, the embarrassing audition before the new managers, fuming older ballet girls and an encouraging Monsieur Reyer, Mme. Giry and Meg, with the grand climax of her first solo performance in front of the whole Parisian society; a startling success.

Christine stared at the one rose that lay so innocently on the vanity's polished tabletop, petals of velvet blood, a strip of black silk…

If it wasn't for Erik's deviously orchestrated interference, would she still be the shining star of the night, would Raoul still recognize her from the assembly of faceless shadows that populated the opera house?

Raoul.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…"

As though her thoughts had conjured him up, Raoul appeared in the doorway, with flowers. So wrapped up she had been in her reverie, that she didn't hear him knock and slip inside.

Christine tore her gaze away from the blood hued, dark ribboned rose, and turned in her chair to see Raoul.

Vicomte De Chagny.

A tall, young man filled her vision; from his tasteful, impeccably tailored navy blue clothes to the way he carried himself with such urbane grace, Raoul was an image of noble beauty.

Teal blue eyes found deep brown, twinkling with obvious delight at seeingthechildhood sweetheart; unforgotten.

A soft cherry blush stained pale cheeks, Christine's heart stirred with a merry beat.

"Those picnics in the attic…" A faint smile crossed her lips.

White gloved hands set the flowers on the vanity, atop the black ribboned rose, concealing the dark scarlet completely.

"How can I forget, Little Lotte?"

"_An outlandish knight came from the North lands, and he came wooing to me, He told me he'd take me unto North lands, and there he would marry me_." Christine's voice was a cheerful melody as she recited the ancient ballad, her smile bright.

The young man crouched by Christine, eyes clouded with sweet nostalgia. Their eyes and hands met slowly, softly. A silent moment was shared, sweetly so, as the childhood memories were remembered.

"_And the Angel of Music would sing songs in my head_…" They said in unison, laughing softly.

A gentle hand, warm through the glove, cupped her cheek, Raoul leaned in and gathered Christine in a warm embrace where all awkward barriers of shy modesty were overcome by the unspoiled, precious past they had shared. Christine's eyes slid closed as she breathed in Raoul's clean, fresh scent, enjoying the warmth and attention, losing the world around them.

Now only the two of them were in existence, the one moment so fleeting, but always remembered.

"The Angel of Music has come to me, Raoul just as father promised. He taught me to sing." Christine said quietly, a shadow passing over her eyes.

Raoul tilted his head, a rogue strand of brown and gold fell forward, only to be smoothed back from his high forehead by Christine's slender fingers.

An affectionate smile played upon his lips as a quick kiss was dropped on Christine's knuckles, politely.

"Come, I know a delightful place we can chat by, and have our supper. You can tell me all about it."

"I can't, Raoul." Christine's voice was scarcely audible, her smile dissolving as she peered up into his eyes pleadingly.

A golden eyebrow arched up slightly. "Why not, Christine? Are you unwell?"

Christine made no immediate reply, her rosebud lips remained sealed. Her head shook.

Teal eyes narrowed slightly, questioningly, studying the beauteous, downcast face a long moment.

"Do you have a suitor?" His voice was low, etched with sorrow.

"No, Raoul." She said quickly, her heart aching at the sight of his disheartened expression.

"Forgive my forwardness, Christine." He murmured apologetically.

A brief smile returned to Christine's lips. "It's all right, really, you weren't forward."

He stood, heading for the door.

"I'll leave you to change. My carriage will be ready in five minutes, I shall return for you then. Don't be long, Little Lotte." His smile was like the first ray of dawn breaking through the grey storm clouds. Then the door closed behind him, and sunshine faded.

Moments later, outside, a key turned in the lock, twisting it into place, quietly so.

* * *

"Insolent boy! How dare he share in my triumph!"

The familiar dark voice echoed through the room with ill-concealed anger. Anger that was substantial, touchable in the gauzy tendrils of smoke that rose and swirled about the full-length mirror.

Gaslight and candlelight surrendered to the omnipresent, potent darkness that blanketed the room with an ominous purpose.

Christine's blood turned to ice, as Erik's wrath enveloped her soul like a filmy, but impenetrable veil.

"Angel of Music, I hear you. Enter, at last, master."

"Look into the mirror, Christine." Was the softly spoken command, piercing through Christine's fears and doubts, and snaking its way into her mind with its alluring promises.

Obediently, dazed, Christine stepped through the looking glass. The black gloved hand closed over hers tightly and pulled her into the narrow passage.

"Did I not make it clear you were to call me Erik?" He brought his lips to Christine's ear and hissed in a darkly luciferian voice.

"Forgive me, Erik." Christine mumbled dreamily.

"Save your apologies until we're down in my abode." Said he, his hard lips bearing no smile.

And descended they did once more, into the subterranean haunt of the Phantom.

* * *

Meg stepped into the Prima Donna dressing room, her eyes adjusting gradually to the dim light of the gas lamp on the vanity, casting an eerie play of shadows across the large mirror.

Her eyes searched Christine, seeing the room's only occupant was deep empty silence, the ballerina turned to leave.

Glancing over to the ghost white orchids atop the vanity, she recognized them to be the bouquet she had seen earlier in Vicomte de Chagny's hands.

Where was Christine now? With the Patroun, or with the Phantom?

A tiny barb of envy pricked her heart, but it was sharp enough, her friend was indeed much loved.

At least with the arrival of the Vicomte, her childhood love, Christine would be preoccupied.

Meg knew of the quickening of Christine's untutored heart when the Vicomte had made his grand entry.

A twisted pleasure it would be to Meg, should the Phantom be incensed with lover's jealousy.

Let him burn with the scarlet flames of unrequited love.

Where did these wicked thoughts come from?

From which fouled fountain did these secret unspoken yearnings flow forth, to fester slowly within her soul?

Meg shuddered.

Her heart hardened.

At last, her prayers were answered.

* * *

**I know I kind of rhymed at the end, but it was all unintentional. Anyways, reviews I love and live for!**


	12. La Chanson Du Masque

**Author's note:Here's the chapter I promised you, people. Enjoy. **

**Broadwaygal: The story will be a solid 20 chapters at least, I'll cover the turning points from the movie, and add some more chapters after the original ending.It will mostly depend on the feedback I get from my readers. :)**

**Kates: Thank you very much indeed. -bows humbly- I'm glad you like it. :)

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"_**Love takes of masks that we fear we cannot live without, and know we cannot live within.**_

_**-James Baldwin**_

"_**Beauty deprived of its proper foils and adjuncts ceases to be enjoyed as beauty, just as light deprived of all shadows ceases to be enjoyed as light."**_

_**-John Ruskin**_

"_**The quality of mercy and absolution**_

_**Whence cometh these qualities?**_

_**Build thyself a mirror in which**_

_**Solely the wanton images of thy desire appear!"**_

_**-Theatre of Tragedy

* * *

**_

The Stygian shore was not barren and frigid, but warm and inviting with an abundance of bone ivory candles' lambent flame entwined with a legion of shadows twisting in an unholy liaison.

Exactly as Christine remembered from the night before.

Her Dark Virtuoso was a formidable sight in his blacks and maroons.

His looming shadow appeared beside her, his voice infiltrating her mind once again.

Christine, a dreamy smile touching her lips, gazed across at the lake; its waters silver against the night of his domain.

His music was slow, sensual, a sable invocation to dreams Christine had come to crave, like a fervent addict each night, with a growing yearning she couldn't admit to even herself.

As his voice rose, Christine vaguely realized the song was in a foreign tongue, but her soul understood its secret language, bowed and swayed in utter worship, lost in its sweet trance.

The lake water rippled by a breeze of Midsummer's Eve, the waters now transparent as she looked, the shifting, murky depths lit from within and a scenery emerged.

The lush, primordial garden from before, fragranced with exotic flowers and a faint salty sea breeze, a coral sunset slowly sinking into the night sky's purplish dark embrace.

This time, on a mountain summit, the night in the Garden of Eden was warm, beautiful, desolate and wild.

Snow white wolves appeared from the forest to greet their queen.

Engrossed in his song, Christine walked through a grove of fig and pomegranate trees, then, passed under a high archway decorated with ivies and jasmine.

Climbing low steps of smooth marble, the hem of her dress trailed behind her with a hushed silken sound.

Her dress…

She was garbed in an exquisite, timelessly elegant dress of black silk, lined with delicate black lace and adorned with ebony pearls. A tiara of crimson flowers was placed upon her head, its sheer gauzy black veil soft and fine as cobweb, cascading down her autumn brown curls.

What appeared to be a mourning gown at first, was a daunting revelation.

It was a black wedding dress.

Her hands carrying a bouquet of carmine flowers and blood-blossoms, Christine ascended the last step into a high vaulted temple; its marble walls covered with exquisite murals.

The phantasmal voice heightened, flowing through her essence…almost like a hallowed Gregorian chant, enfolding her senses in pure bliss, casting away all fears.

She approached a red-veined black marble altar surrounded by musk-scented candles, and stood before it, raising the wine coloured flowers to her nose and taking a long, deep breath.

Awaiting.

Like Lilith deified in a virgin shrine, anticipating the arrival of her sovereign.

The thanaterous serenade reached its zenith, pulsing deep inside her with a sepulchral echo, and finally faded.

Christine was breathless, her heart beating with a thunderous rhythm.

Her ruby lips quivered, her whole body sensitized, aching and throbbing with the after dark of Erik's music. A honeyed warmth gathered in her stomach, spreading lower…and melted in her very core.

The sensation was extraordinary…Yet, somehow it felt incomplete, lacking…

Her mind was completely satisfied.

Yet her body ached, begging for a different kind of release, a forbidden euphoria.

Christine's senses reeled…what had just happened seemed to be only the beginning, a taunting taste of what could have been, what could be… if only…

Dark lashes wet with tears of rapture, the sweet delirium of the melody still resonant within her mind, her eyes opened, shimmering into those of alluring steel grey.

Boldly so…Intimately so.

His face brought close hers, only an inch apart.

He laid his palm on her cheek, his thumb traced along her perfect jaw line with a tantalizing softness.

His hand gently turned her face to a velvet curtain, and he pulled it aside.

What lay behind was unreality.

Christine gaped in stunned silence. Disbelieving eyes taking in the image surrounded by mirrors, a young, pale cheeked, dark haired, pretty girl of seventeen stared back at her, dressed in the exact replica of the wedding gown she had just dreamed.

But the doppelganger wore white, not black.

Impossible…it had been an illusion, a Phantasy.

Christine's knees gave way, her senses fogged, paradise slipped into oblivion…

* * *

Erik caught Christine in his arms as she fell unconscious before the mannequin, her body was so soft, so warm. 

He wondered at what she saw, what she felt when he sang to her, alas, he could not tell.

He carried her into his bed chamber and lowered her onto the swan bed, watching her curls spill across the pillows, her breast rising and falling with each quiet breathing.

Her flawless complexion was slightly rosy, her heart-shaped face calm.

How could any human being look so virtuous in her innocent desire?

Of course, Christine knew nothing of lust.

How many nights had he envisaged her like this, an unspoken benediction?

Erik was filled with a sense of self-loathing so profound it threatened to break through the mortal coil, chains of guilt lashing against his tarnished conscience.

He had to bring her down here again, ensure her obedience.

For a new threat had arisen, in the form of a young, handsome champion of her childhood faerytales; the Vicomte de Chagny.

Bitter embers of hatred and jealousy set his senses aflame.

This nuisance had to be dealt with quietly, swiftly and surely.

* * *

The awakening was a soft music, and a whisper of scarlet sheets, made from the softest material. 

Christine sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes and running her hand through the tangled mass of her curls.

Hazily, she looked at the direction of the little chiming melody.

A music-box in the shape of a barrel organ, a curious monkey sitting on top of it, its little hands tiny cymbals came together rhythmically to produce a trilling music, its tune unfamiliar to Christine.

Rising from the bed, she descended on a stone staircase down into the outer sanctum, her arms hung limp at her sides, lips pursed, eyes bright and clear, no more possessed by the sinister charm of his glorious music.

He was seated at the pipe-organ, scribbling on a piece of faded parchment.

Christine moved quietly out of habit.

He turned instinctively, dropping the quill pen and slipping the paper in red leather bound folder.

The black cape and the waistcoat were shed, leaving him in his charcoal trousers and a simple shirt of white linen, opened at the front, his sleekly muscled chest bared.

Her eyes took their fill of his enigmatic beauty.

"Did I mention, Christine, your performance last night was breathtaking?" Spoke Erik, the visible side of his face graced with an unsmiling, but approving expression.

Christine bowed to this, beaming with pleasure at his appraisal.

"I have no doubt your new career as a soprano should progress smoothly, especially with Carlotta out of the picture."

Christine remained silent.

"It all depends on you, however." Drawled he.

Icy fingers of fear caressed down her spine.

"What do you mean, Erik?"

"Answer me this, Christine..."

She awaited, curiously.

"Who gave you your voice?" He demanded.

"God did." Was the immediate reply.

"And who taught you to sing?" He asked firmly.

"You did." Without a trace of hesitation.

Indeed…Erik mused in a moment's silence. Much like a dirt-streaked diamond dug from the depths of the earth, her voice had been transformed and polished into a shining, brightest jewel ever known to mankind.

"Correct. Therefore, God and I must be your true benefactors, except I would never forsake you. Since he and I are your sole guardians in this life, answer me now Christine; would you turn away from your God?"

"No." She whispered.

"Would you turn away from me?" He asked, his satin voice a diabolically soft and dangerous.

A moment's silence.

An eternity.

Christine paled, regarding him with growing apprehension.

"Erik, I don't understand…"

"I'll make it simple for you."

He stood, strolling over, his grey eyes foreboding.

"Who came to you that night, after your father died?"

That night in the chapel, he had come with the storm…

"You …did." She murmured.

"Who comforted you and guarded you all these years when you were denied of sleep, when your pain became too unbearable?"

"You, Erik."

A slight nod of satisfaction.

"It appears to me, my dear, you owe me." Steely sharp voice, yet so soft.

She blinked in disbelief, appalled. Her musical enlightenment she regarded as a blessing from an angel.

Did angels demand payment for their blessings?

"Be at ease. All I ask of you is your loyalty."

His voice was laden with passion, his eyes a smoky grey as he whispered.

"Only you can sing the music I write. Only you, Christine."

_You alone can make my song take flight…_

"You said loyalty…"

His eyes were hardened, all knowing.

"It is something you should consider seriously, my dear. Your loyalty lies here, with music. With me. The vicomte will provide a temporary distraction at best, and an untimely demise of your career at worst. Therefore, I forbid any further involvement with him, or anyone else for that matter."

"But he's a dear friend! How can you ask of me to cast him aside without reason."

_How could Gustav have asked me to be your angel…He should have seen this coming._

"I can give you many reasons, Christine."

She nodded.

But first, she had to know.

She had to see.

Small hands raised to his face lovingly, the way he deeply responded to her touch nearly broke her resolve.

Now her hand glided over the edges of the white leather mask, fingers crept underneath, lifting the mask off his face.

Paradiso plunged into Inferno.

With an enraged howl, Erik ran to the mirrors around the lair and tore off the velvet drapes. One by one.

"Damn you!" He snarled at the abomination in the mirrors.

Swiftly, he turned to her.

"Here's the reward for your treachery, Christine, my lying little viper." A spiteful hiss.

"Are you satisfied, my prying Pandora?" An anguished growl.

"Tell me, is this what you wanted to see, my Delilah? Are you now satisfied!"

No longer wrapped in his music, instead, she was sanctified by his quiet aggression that was electrifying, suffocating.

Christine, surrounded by a hundred reflections of him, collapsed to the ground with a sob.

She did not utter a single word, her eyes fixed on his face.

His face…

Half dream, half nightmare.

An anathema.

A warped mass of rotting flesh and twisted bone, coalesced hideously together in perfect grotesquery to create a visage that even demons would shudder at the sight, and angels would weep and turn away in disgust.

Christine trembled. This abhorrence was not his doing.

Flesh and bone, would turn to dust one day.

But his music…that sweet, divine music would live on, conquer time and time again the ages.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she wondered…Why had God denied him the principle of beauty in its rightful integrity?

"Yes, look at me, Christine. Aren't we all made in God's image indeed?" A hollow, twisted sneer.

With a courage born of her remorse, Christine staggered to her feet, step by cautious step approaching him.

Her smile was aurora, shining through the bleeding darkness.

Shaky fingers raised the mask slowly to his face, over the deformed, abominable right side.

His hand closed over hers, fitting the mask expertly in place.

Spoke the fallen idol in the blackest shade of anger, eternally soft, but deathly chill; his words sealing the breach and the bond between them.

"You will sing for me."

* * *


	13. Lumière d'obscurité

**Author's Note: Thank you all, my wonderful readers. Your reviews really help. Here's another little Erik chapter I hope you will enjoy. I also added a little surprise at the end.**

**Do let me know if you like it.**

**monroe-mary****: Trust me, I was so tempted. We're getting to that much anticipated kiss, though, slowly, but soon enough. :) We'll see who she chooses in the end. Or whom fate chooses for her…**

**Witchy-grrl****: Thanks heaps my dear. His music is nothing short of inspiring.Poor Christine, little she knows yet this is only the beginning.**

**broadwaygal****: Thank you very much. I decided Erik would rather sing to her in his motherstongue for a more special experience. I would say Christine is only a young, confused girl about her feelings. Very normal,she's only a teenager. Given her world turned upside down in a handful of nights, she's taking it well so far. :) **

**Kates: Merci beaucoup:) Did I mention I'm an ardent fan of your stories as well?

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"**_Passion is the genesis of genius."_**

_**-Anthony Robbins

* * *

**_

"**_Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes._**

_**-Marquis de Sade

* * *

**_

The solitary light of the flambeaux fell upon the waveless lake, on the carved walls and on the man seated at the pipe organ.

Solitude came on cruel black wings, promising more punishment.

Lips were parted in a frustrated groan, an echo of a wailing incubus, restless fingers dancing over the ivory keys rapidly, angrily, producing a melody torn from the very core of Asmodei's unholy gasps and primal howling in a chant of his infernal seduction, and a fallen Aphrodite's enraptured weeps and pleasured moans.

Black hair was mussed, falling over the leather mask, eyes of grey glowing with lust's agonizing unfulfilled splendour.

Fingers applied further pressure to the keys, savagely so, hissing breaths from between clenched teeth joining the carnal symphony.

Sweat formed in tiny beads across a body sculpted from the most lecherous, darkly erotic phantasies of a Madonna disgraced and perverted on a Babylonian blood and sweat drenched altar.

A body untouched by a lover's eyes, lover's caress…

A body craving only one other body.

That of Christine's.

Deceiving, seductive, beauteous Queen of a Dying Sun's music.

Her pearly innocence the unforgiving scourge of his sickest dreams.

A stark, feral need tensed every hard muscle with the torturous remembrance of Christine's body near his.

The primal overture filled the cavern, resounding with the screams of a sweet depravity; a debauch rhapsody.

How he craved with a profane desire to pierce her chaste softness with the spearhead of his relentless corruption.

To thrust until he was completely buried in her untainted feminine purity, moist with Elixir Vitae.

To plunge on and on until the crimson tides of his frenzied passions ploughed in her the seed of his violent possession.

His mind threatened to shatter with the dementia of his fierce lust and fierce anger.

An abhorrent gargoyle yearning for a taste of heaven…

The organ music ceased abruptly with a brutal intensity, the fervent song ringing in his ears.

Erik wiped his clammy hands on the black linen of his trousers, and reached over the stacks of his finished librettos to retrieve a fresh parchment, a quill pen and a vial of the reddest ink from his stationary, writing down the notes of his passion tide.

When finished, a hand raked through the hair of raven dark and wiped the left side of his face, slick with perspiration.

He leaned back in his chair, gasping for breath, hands tracing the low collar of his shirt, undoing the top buttons.

How long was he to suffer this travesty?

Why should he martyr himself any longer for a dead man's wish?

The flames of his aggravation were further fanned by a new adversary.

Raoul de Chagny.

Who had the guts to disobey his orders and underestimate his warnings.

His theatre was seized by worthless imbecile, an ignorant, but a persistent pest that needed to be eliminated, crushed and annihilated.

Could a man hate another man with such vengeful, venomous hatred?

For a little, naive, unworldly, wide-eyed girl?

For Christine?

A vicious sneer twisted his sensuously carved lips.

For a thousand lifetimes yes.

A throng of shadows writhed in unison, in approval of their master's thoughts.

Tonight, Tenebrion Himself was coming to descend with his abyssal wrath, his black vengeance on the unsuspecting, defiant fools of Opera Populaire.

* * *

The theatre was a pandemonium for the evening's performance of Il Muto. The Opera Ghost's orders had been rejected and his threats dismissed. Carlotta had returned, reclaiming her position as the Prima Donna, musicians had filled the pit, the stage decorated in the trappings of the eighteenth century, a huge canopied bed dominating the centre stage. 

Inside the communal dressing room, every single taper and lamp was lit, drowning the chamber in their dizzying brilliance. Christine had brought a small lantern as well, to enhance the brightness.

She had been shaken when Meg found her in the ballet dorm, unusually quiet, demanding light…more light.

Meg squinted her eyes against the blinding artificial radiance and tightened the binds on Christine's corset, leaving her to slip on that appalling man's shirt. Blue half-trousers hug her shapely, white stockinged legs, accentuating her narrow waist and softly rounded hips.

Not a trace of make-up veiled her natural Scandinavian beauty.

Serafimo was ready to conquer the Countess's heart.

Meg leaned in to the mirror, dabbing a dark-plum shaded rouge on her lips, her ample bosom nearly spilling out of her creamy corset, resembling more a courtesan than a maid.

Christine sat in complete silence, eyes downcast and shadowed with her secret burden.

Meg laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, sympathising with her friend's suffering. She wanted to utter words of comfort, but she couldn't bring herself to do so…

Christine closed her eyes, and immediately, the embodiment of her dreams and the manifestation of her worst nightmares assaulted her mind's eye, taunting and tormenting at the same time, that strange, luring darkness.

"Christine, we must go. Let's not make Don Atillio's faithless wife wait any longer for her handsome pageboy." Meg said flatly, a hint of involuntary bitterness creeping into her voice, though she smiled brightly.

Dark lashes fluttered open, Christine pulled out a strip of black silk and tied her unruly curls in a pony tail.

"Yes, Meg. Let's go and conquer milady's heart." Christine mumbled with a slight smile.

* * *

The netherworld opened its doors, hordes of black clouds marching forth and lowering over the Carpathian countryside with a tempestual wrath. The storm shook the thick stone walls of the castle towering over the winter-ridden meadows, the dense woods beyond and a vast frosty lake. The high windows rattled under the assault of the pounding rain, and shrieking wind in spectral concert with the dark celestial of the Romanian skies, still pagan at heart. 

Ruxandra Dragutinovich drew in a sharp breath and turned her head with a slight grimace from the mirror to the window.

How the storm howled to her turbulent emotions, the painful memories of a son forsaken…

Her son.

With a small, elegant gesture of her jewelled hand, she beckoned the young man seated by the bed to her side.

Rurik Andrassy rose, his chair creaking quietly as he did so.

Despite her years, the old Boyarinya was an imposing sight. Her hair; which she adamantly refused to dye, was a deep brown that was almost black, streaked with moon silver, spilling past her shoulders down to her still graceful, rigid lower back.

The cruel lines of old age had not ravaged her sharp beauty, the merciless passage of time had not robbed her of her proud dignity.

Even as she lay dying, her head was held high, composed.

Cancer of the womb.

Her pale oval face was masked with a darkly toned, elegant make-up in defiance of her terminal sickness that was wasting her away moment by moment, in an agonizing fever.

How could not Death fall in love with her and claim her as his own?

"Yes, Aunt?" Rurik inquired slowly.

The Countess pulled forth a nondescript brown leather pouch, just large enough to fit in the palm of his hand, along with a yellowed-white, sealed envelope.

Her grey eyes glittered hard, fixated upon the young man's questioning face.

"You must do something for me, Rurik. 'Tis my last and only wish. Will you do it?"

Inquisitive pale green eyes flickered with doubt, but he bowed his head slightly to indicate his agreement.

How could he refuse her?

Since the grisly demise of his parents, Rurik had spent most of the twenty-eight years of his life in this isolated castle that rose from the ground like a god-stone from the ancient times of Wallachia, where Olde Worlde Voivodes of a bygone era ruled as warlords with a tyrannical fist.

She straightened in the bed, holding up a swift hand haltingly as Rurik made a move to help the old woman.

She held out the pouch and the sealed envelope, which he took gingerly.

"My will, is that you find my son, and give him these mementos which I have trusted you with."

Rurik shot up a dark eyebrow. As far as he was concerned, the Countess was childless.

Noting the lines of confusion deepen in her nephew's face, Ruxandra added as an afterthought.

"I had a child once…A boy..." She murmured with an uncharacteristic sorrow. "No one was to know he had been born deformed, so all they were told was that he was stillborn. But he lived. He lived…" Her voice trailed off into a whisper.

_No priest would baptise the child, no faith accept him into its hallowed ground._

_Her son…_

Rurik was silent, understanding, as he listened.

"Very well, aunt. I will deliver these to your son. But why such an unusual choice of conveyance, pray tell? Where is he now?"

_Where are you, heart of my heart…Flesh of my flesh…Sin of my black sin…_

Ghostly lashes lowered with a sudden choked sob, the calm, carefully composed façade toppled, crumbled to dust, within the same moment her face lit with the burden of her long rejected emotions.

Behind glassy grey eyes were something akin to…remorse?

"I do not know. On his eighth winter, I sent him away with the gypsies. Before you judge me, I should tell you I did this for his own good. After that, I lost all contact. His father wouldn't permit it."

Rurik went rigid, stared blankly. This powerful, proud woman was confiding him with her deepest secrets?

"How do you know if he's even alive aunt? How many years has it been?"

Grey eyes flashed with a sudden surge of emotions.

"I know he's alive! I can sense it! He's been tormenting me all these years, out there somewhere in the world uttering my name only as a curse, not knowing it was I who saved his life from a…from.." The countess trembled, her words dying on her lips…

_And delivered him, your own son, into the hands of another foul lot._

Rurik stroked his chin, his face expressionless, his green eyes thoughtful. The old woman must be delusional in her last hours.

"Indulge me, Rurik. Promise me you will do all in your power to find him. I have drawn up the appropriate papers for your allowance. Spare no expense."

"And what if I never find him? He could be anywhere, if he's still alive."

"Oh, trust me, he's alive." She mumbled darkly.

"But you must consider the possibility he might not be, aunt." Rurik remarked gently.

"Then you shall return."

"And what of these?" He indicated the pouch and the envelope.

"In the event that you are absolutely certain he's no longer alive, you shall dispose of them immediately."

Rurik contemplated in silence. This was a fool's errand. One he would set about as soon as possible.

"Very well, I will require more information, his name, the gypsies, everything you can tell me will be useful."

" His full name is Alexei Mircea Maximilian Dragutinovich. The rest of the details Anica will provide."

"How do I recognize him?"

"You…can't miss him. His face is deeply malformed. The left side of it, as far as I remember. He's.. one of a kind." She said bitterly.

Rurik considered this.

"Will you do as I bid?"

"Be at peace, aunt. I shall do it."

Ruxandra smiled , not her usual hollow, spectral smile, but a genuine smile of relief, of warmth.

Her nephew was a man of honour, and once hegave his word, he would never back down from it. In a world where chivalry was next to nonexistent, Rurik was a gallant champion all the way.

"I shall find peace when my soul is purged of its sins in hell, Rurik. Now leave me to greet my final paramour, he must be most anxious for our rendezvous."

Rurik headed for the door, then paused, not quite understanding.

"Your paramour, aunt?"

"Death, is the last lover of all of us, Rurik."

He bowed politely, walking out the door, closing it silently behind him. Death had not been a kind suitor to his mother and father.

He hoped Ruxandra was right.

He cleared his mind of the morbid thoughts and focused on the task ahead.

Alexei Dragutinovich must be found.

* * *


	14. Ange de la Mort sans Ailes

**Author's Note: Hello everyone. After another little break I'm back with –of course- more Erik and Christine. A warning, though, this chapter contains a –darker- Erik, which some of you might find a little too intense, so caution is advised. Also, there's a little violence too, but I tried to keep it to minimum for G-13's sake. I'd like to thank all of you, again, for your support. Those who read and review are champs!**

**Well, enjoy!**

**broadwaygal****: I truly appreciate your commentary :) There's definitely an Elektra complex to it. Erik's just too intense, too complex a character, but without over-analyzing him, I'll try to define his troubled psyche in this story. : ) Also, thank you for your kind words. I try my best.**

**monroe-mary**** Countess's memories were deliberately altered. Thanks for your review also.**

**MorganLeFay99**** AT LEAST 20 chapters, my dear. **

**LadyCatBailey****: -bows- thank you kindly my dear. No worries, occasionally I've been seized by a deep urge to bash all the characters that come between Erik and Christine, even as I narrate them, but hey, in the end, without them, we wouldn't be able to appreciate the tragic romance of E/C. –drools- Gerik indeed.**

**Kates: -blush- Wow, thanks! You made my day there.**

* * *

"_**A savage place! As holy and enchanted/ As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted / By woman wailing for her demon lover"**_

_**-Samuel Taylor Coleridge**_

"_**The just is close to the people's heart, but the merciful is close to the heart of God."**_

_**-Khalil Gibran**_

"_**But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of."**_

_**-Lord Byron

* * *

**_

"This faithless lady's bound for Hades! Shame! Shame! Shame!" Sang the Countess's confidante, jeweller and hairdresser, an insincere grin plastered across their overly-made up white faces and scarlet lips.

Buquet, tending to the flies, watched the play disinterestedly, occasionally taking a long swig of brandy from a small flask, his roving eyes drifting from an exceptionally pretty aristocrat in the front row of the audience to the slender, statuesque figure of Christine, as the pink canopy drapes parted to reveal her character Serafimo and that screeching soprano lost in their illicit liaison on the lavish bed.

Suddenly, from nowhere came a deep, low, echoing voice.

"Did I not instruct that Box five was to be kept empty?"

Buquet's eyes darted about uneasily, that hideous, godless bastard was there somewhere, always watching.

Meg cut her gaze to the flies, then whispered to herself in awe. " He's here, the Phantom of the Opera."

Christine sighed in a small voice. "It's Him."

"Your part is silent, little toad!" Carlotta hissed as the bewildered audience gawked.

"A toad, madam? Perhaps it is you, who are the toad!" The ghostly voice resounded again, rising panic from the audience.

While managers Firmin and Andre tried to calm the audience, Carlotta made her re-entry after having walked off stage to spray her mouth liberally from a small crystal flask.

Music resumed with the return of the Diva, and what happened next was a grand comedy.

The Italian Soprano's high-pitched voice soared, then croaked.

Every desperate attempt at singing drew another croak from her brightly painted lips.

There were gasps and laughter.

The great chandelier began to sway, its lights flickering eerily.

The fiasco soon turned to nightmare.

Suddenly, and inky blackness enshrouded the whole theatre, drawing frightened gasps from the spectators and the assembly of opera cast.

Then, just as suddenly, blood-curdling screams resonated within the opera, in twisted concert with a crescendoing dark laughter.

Followed by a sickening thud as something heavy fell onto the stage.

The opaque curtain of the unnatural darkness lifted, and light returned with disaster.

The theatre was plunged into chaos, people shrieked, ladies fainted, guards rushed over.

The garrotted body of Joseph Buquet laid at Carlotta's feet, causing her to run backstage in a scream of terror.

What's more disquieting was, that the dead man's face was completely obscured by a white expressionless mask. From underneath the mask, trickled a steady stream of blood, staining the thick noose around his neck.

Christine watched in mute horror, petrified, as Meg, aghast, approached the corpse gingerly, and pulled off the mask.

Only then, did Christine react.

She screamed.

Buquet's face, -or what's left of it- was a gory mass of blood and torn flesh, the skin completely flayed.

The Opera Ghost had indeed extracted his brutal revenge on his disobedient flock.

* * *

Christine raced up to the Opera Rooftops, emerging into the night air, her brown curls and her red cloak flying behind her like an autumnal banner. 

She leaned against a statue and panted, her uneven breaths misted in the cold air, tears streaming down her wan, pale face.

Her eyes fell on the gargoyles overlooking the nocturnally radiant panorama of Paris, trying to dispel the awful image of Buquet's death.

The flayed skin, exposed bone, flowing blood splashed in disorder in sanguine colours from a madman's palette onto a broken canvas; a savage tableau that would haunt her memories for the rest of her life.

Bile rose in her throat, Christine keeled over, shuddering uncontrollably.

An elongated shadow fell across her own on the snow-covered ground.

Alarmed, Christine snapped her head up.

Stood the Reaper before her, the menacing personification of Vengeance Primordial.

The Mask of Doom.

The totem of apocalyptic music clothed in his usual blacks that dusk would envy, the omnipotent and wrathful eidolon.

No wonder.

Blood didn't show on black.

The blizzard grey eyes were hollow on the surface, betraying the fact that he felt a lot more than he said, making him unpredictable and dangerous.

A rigid sculpture he seemed, standing beneath the Apollo's lyre, so austere and deific that the stone statues might tremble at the nearness of such an impending malignance.

In eyes of northern brown were a dark lustre of despair, of fear, awe and disgust.

"How could you…How could you do that? Kill someone like…that? Oh God!" A choked whisper.

"How could I not? He who ridiculed my face now has no face at all." The black silky voice terribly soft and calm, infuriatingly so.

"Erik! You killed a man! Don't you understand what you've done!" The silvery gentle voice was raised in righteous anger and utter shock.

The Phantom tilted a half-masked face slightly, eyes frozen to grey ice.

"Absolutely. Next time your _dear friend_ Vicomte ignores my orders and provokes my ire, the punishment will be even more severe."

Christine stared, stupefied and terrified.

"You're mad." A faint murmur.

"How perceptive of you, my little Delilah." Cruel sarcasm flowing like blood wine.

"Don't you realize there won't be a next time!" Christine said, vexed.

"Without a doubt, my dear, indeed there won't. Unless your _dear friend_ is more puerile than I've thought."

"There won't be a next time because they will catch you, Erik!" Cried Christine.

"No, my Vine Queen, next time there will be a lasso around his pretty neck."

Tears shimmered like liquid crystals in wide brown eyes, cherubic face drained of all colour and life.

"You're a monster." A trembling whisper laced with sick dread.

The white mask took on a ghoulish, unearthly sheen, eyes flashed with a baleful grey light, anger tinted like Hades exalted in an immaculate black rage.

"You flatter me, my dear." The smooth jet velvet voice was venomously harsh, but fiendishly soft.

The black boots fell silent on snow, slowly like a shark circling its prey, the Phantom began to walk slowly around ensnared Christine, regarding her with a veiled expression in eyes burning like an Erebus twilight, boring into a soul untarnished with guilt and sin.

"Suppose I get caught, and hanged to appease their corrupt justice, would that make you glad?" Beneath the arctic smoothness of his voice was an undertow of anguish, faintly detectable.

The black cape brushed against her lightly like a raptor's wing, as the Phantom continued his slow pace.

"No…" Sobbed she softly in a subdued voice. "God forgive me, I would weep should justice be served." Christine shook her head, startled and ashamed of her own affirmation.

"Then worry not, it is foolish to seek integrityin a world of an unjust God."

"By punishing the world, you punish yourself, Erik." Said she, a benign whisper.

A grim half-smile curved Erik's lips. Black leather clad hand rested on Christine's temple, tapered fingertips following a slow, gentle trail down to her tear moistened lips softer than a butterfly's wings.

"I'll enlighten you about the depths of my punishment, my dear, which keeps eluding you continuously."

His head was slightly bent to hers, eyes grey slits of feral ,chill intensity even as his touch was strangely warm, heated from within.

"Punishment is a gleam of resentment in a brown eye, a glorious dark curl against my skin…"

His dark voice lowered to a sensual whisper, daemonically so. Christine quivered like a solitary flower in a caressing wind.

His gaze fell onto a full top lip, flawlessly curved.

"Punishment is a single tear that stains lips of virtue, the frown upon a gentle brow." The husky whisper dropped a tone lower, fingertips stroked down to the base of the elegant column of her throat, tracing her collarbone.

Christine felt warm, mellow and light-headed, her pulse drumming in her ears. Her hand tangled in his sleek black hair of its own volition.

"Punishment becomes you, Christine; my heart's blood, your voice is the principle of my music." Erik said hoarsely, his hot breath beating upon her neck, just below her earlobe.

A maelstrom of emotions stirred within Christine, fear, yearning, unfamiliar and unspeakable pain in the depths of her heart.

Erik gazed down at her face, eyes misted in a dream-like trance, a smile plucked from an angel's sigh, her lips full and pink like the spring bloom…

Stern resolve dissolved, the mighty Hades fell to his Queen.

Then, Heaven opened its doors, a shaft of divine light reached mercifully down into hell and touched the charred, blackened wings of a demon chained in his agony.

Burning from within, Erik crushed her body into his with bruising intensity, devouring her lips with his own, prying them apart with his tongue, tasting the faint salt of dried tears, a strawberry warmth and desire in its purest, untainted form.

He tasted Christine, at last.

Lips met and moulded against and into each other, somewhat unsure at first, then intense passion soaring, tongues intertwined with fierce urge, fierce longing.

Angel and Demon combusted together, plunging into the consuming fires.

Christine's initial resistance rapidly melted under the steady gaze of the molten flame, softly whimpering into his mouth, teasing, tasting the potent aphrodisia that was his lips.

In that one moment's painful pleasure, joyful sorrow, the kiss came to an abrupt halt as Erik withdrew, pushing her away from him.

His monstrosity and immoral descent into lust's temporary snare was unforgivable.

It was a crime.

"Erik!" Christine whispered, dizzy from the intensity of the unexpected kiss, disillusioned and vulnerable.

"Punishment is this loathsome face, which you unmasked in the most deceitful and cruellest of ways! Behold, Christine, YOUR punishment! Take off the mask!"

Erik snarled in furious contempt, penitent, yet his face twisted in dark, bitter anger.

Christine's dark lashes met, a solitary tear trickled down smooth, porcelain cheek, her sorrow, her pain, her grief and her kind mercy, all calcified in that one tear.

Above the din of his beating heart, Erik heard footsteps approaching.

Christine opened her eyes into empty opera roof, at her feet, on the freshly fallen snow a dark red rose tied with a black ribbon.

Then the iron door burst open, a man running toward her.

A young man dressed in grey, his dark gold hair free of restraint, the chiselled, noble lines of his face creased with genuine concern.

"Christine! My God, I've been searching for you all around the place, are you all right?"

"Raoul…" Said the maiden of northlands, her voice dull, toneless. She was shivering beneath her thin cloak and shirt.

He slipped his coat off and draped it around her shoulders, smoothing his hands up and down her arms gently to warm her up.

Suddenly, Christine flung herself into his embrace, her arms clutching onto his strong frame.

"Raoul! Oh, Raoul...Will it ever end…"

He held her close, tightly, stroking her hair. "No more talk of darkness, Christine. I'm here, nothing can harm you."

Christine drew back, searching his face; honest, genial and beautiful. Yet her hearts strings were pulled in thousand directions by a man, a murderer, a Phantom that wanted nothing but her voice, to control and manipulate her. Still... those eyes that both threatened and adored. That soul-shattering kiss...

Erik's vindictive beauty was the rose clutched in her hands. Raoul's gaze drifted downward to the flower, he gently took the rose from her, and threw it to the ground.

"Christine, no matter what you do, what you have done, I will always be here for you, and my feelings for you will never change." He said in a tender voice. In his teal blue eyes were kindness, warmth…

Love.

"Promise me Raoul, you will understand…"

"Let me be your shelter, let daylight dry your tears. I'm here, for you, Christine."

"Anywhere you go, let me go too…Away from this nightmare. Say the word, and I will follow you, Raoul. Say…you love me."

"You know I do, Christine, always have, always will."

Taking her by the hand, Raoul led her away from the rooftop, back down inside the opera.

A vast black shadow fell upon the snow, violent, crackling fury tangible in the night air.

Erik bent over to pick the rose, each crimson petal stung his flesh, sending jolts of pain through his body.

"Christine…"

Pain and anger took over with vengeance, blotting out reason, all memory and all emotion.

The rose was crushed in his hand, its petals dropping onto the ground as the snowflakes began to fall.

As his tears began to fall.

The Phantom of The Opera faded into the blackness of his subterranean lair once more.

Leaving a curse upon the night, his betrayal and denial a bitter funereal echo upon the wind.

Now, there was going to be war.

* * *

The Dragutinovich family cemetery was a bleak garden of carved angels and weather-worn ornate marble tombs and crypts. 

Rurik stood before an elaborate plaque that held the engraved picture of Ruxandra in her prime.

"Father Andrassy?" Inquired a male voice politely.

Rurik turned slightly.

"Father, I have the address of the old gypsy with me."

Rurik nodded, shooting a one last glance to the tomb. With a sigh that disappeared in the gaining wind, groaning like an elegy faint and whispery, Rurik lingered on the grave, where the cold marble walls now sheltered his aunt, his last relative.

Gone.

No, one last blood kin remained.

His cousin Alexej.

* * *

The feeble yellow disc of the September sun provided little warmth. 

Old gnarled hands stroked affectionately the underside of a shepherd dog's chin, as it began to bark in warning of a stranger nearby.

Petru's eyes, blurred with age, searched the dirt path ahead.

"Sacha, who's that there?" Called the ancient voice.

The youngRomany set down her basket of freshly laundered garments and raised up a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the softly golden shafts of the sun to inspect the approaching figure with more than a passing interest.

"It's a priest, grandpapa."

A tall man, with short, swept back dark hair, garbed in simple black trousers and unadorned boots, wearing the traditional priestly black robes of Russo-Romanian Orthodox church, slight beginnings of kind smile upon his lips.

If his beauty weren't consecrated to the Cross, Sacha was certain he would be a very sought after male indeed.

Maybe he already was.

"A pleasant day to you, my good woman. Is this Petru Ciorbea's house?" His voice was deep, its tone crystal clear like the blue waters of the Danube, fit for any heavenly choir.

A wooden cane was raised in his direction, interrupting before the young girl could answer.

"What would you be wanting from him?" The old gypsy demanded, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. These seemingly-devout church men usually brought trouble, and their preaching against the _heathen ways_ of the Romanys in hopes of converting them were becoming more tiresome each day.

"My name is Rurik Andrassy, I-.."

"Yes yes, get on with it, man, I don't care who you are. What do you want?"

Rurik spoke on, ignoring the old man.

"I've come to speak with him about a matter of great importance. Would you know of him, sir?"

Petru muttered a curse beneath his breath.

"I am he. Make it quick!"

Eyes like green smoke lit with triumph, he took a few steps closer to the cottage.

"You were the animal trainer of a travelling gypsy show, were you not?"

"Yes, It was years ago...what about it?"

"Then you must know about a child that was given to your caravan master's care some twenty nine years ago. A boy of eight years with a deformed face."

A deep frown wrinkled the wizened bronze face.

"You must be meanin' the Devil's Child…Aye I do remember the little demon."

At this, the priest's kindly young face darkened slightly in confusion.

"Pardon me, father. I think you'd better come inside…"

* * *

**That's it for now, guys. Let me know how you like the story so far.**


	15. Echo

**Author's note: Here's a little bit more of our Phantom, please do excuse any mistakes, wrote it on impulse at work, which is not a very inspirational environment. Anyways, I'll return with a longer chapter tomorrow. **

**Of course, to all of my readers/reviewers; Uber thanks for your support! -sings Carlotta like, yikes-**

**broadwaygal****: The punishment dialogue is the fruit of my disturbed imagination, yes I wrote every word of it myself, as the rest of the story except for the obvious POTO concept that is the wondrous creation of Leroux, and the related lines from the musical which belongs to ALW. Regarding the romantic(!) kiss, all I can say is Christine is both the bane and the cure to his existence, so Erik was kind of purging the poison out of his system at the same time getting infected by its bittersweet venom, quite willingly too, so I decided against making it a romantic first time. He can be courteous, but lovely? Hmm, debatable. Thank you so much, for your regular reviews, by the way, they mean a lot. **

**bellasera****: Erik will descend darker, don't you worry. : )**

**monroe-mary****: Yes actually, I have tried writing poetry and it sucked. :) Thanks for the compliment though.**

**LadyCatBailey****: Hehe, that forbidden fruit…isn't it just…tempting? Gerik mental images…brain's about to explode Wow, being compared to Hitchcock is a great honor to say the least. I don't think any body can recreate his atmospheric spookiness and suspense and horror, much less my humble self, but it doesn't stop me from wishing! Though thank you all the same.

* * *

**

"_**Love is a haunting melody**_

_**That I have never mastered**_

_**And I fear I never will."**_

_**-William S. Burroughs

* * *

**_

The heat of the kiss clung to his lips, Christine's cherry scented nectar, the sweetest aroma flowed though his bloodstream like purest absinthe.

A slight tremor of lips emblazoned with the blood of his love-torn heart.

He had succumbed to the devouring flames of fiery passion's inferno, only to be left suspended in a purgatory of searing pain everlasting.

Erik staggered over to his pipe organ, his mind throbbing with the dynamic of his music.

Long, agitated fingers lost in brisk motion above the keys, wave upon wave of melody crashing…

Moments ticked by, streaming into hours, days, streaming into an ocean of infinity.

Time's passage was a depthless void swallowing Erik's loneliness.

On Adonis lips lingered a lover's smouldering kiss.

Luna's silver needle pierced sun's heart defeated and wretched beam, crimson streaked dusk muted to a star-bleeding light dawning, beguiling.

Christine…

Capricious siren secrets voiceless, lust diseased whispers echoed against his mind like springtide's dawn fragrant flowers…

In bloom to jilted roses faded in winter wilted elegy.

Yearning, musing, arose Erik from the pipe-organ like black phoenix from ashes of love's ravaged temple unto withered fields of solitude sovereignty.

Descended wrathful narcissus shattered inside gilded looking glass, a mask's ivory eclipse of a monster's midnight glimpse…

Of bone and ebon fey maiden beauty crowned in twilight poetry, archangelic voice a requiem to pale-cheeked idolatry.

Tore his soul asunder with pain's deafening symphony, and sang he…

Hymn of Love's mourning torture solstice,

That echoed unto eternity's death-denied hallowed dream.

Ink-stained hands held the quill to the parchment, bold, flowing red script filled paper upon paper where Don Juan reigned Triumphant.

The white mask lay forgotten among the sheets of music, its owner stood before a music box in the shape of a monkey in Persian robes, wiping away the thick layer of dust reverently, jaded grey eyes an oceanic prism, observed the trinket, the only treasure and companion through years of a freak's twisted jester show.

Black haired head turning from the music box in slight glance to the white-garbed doll beyond the curtain, a perpetual smile a flawless sobriety across a saint-like face of unblemished porcelain, inanimate, lifeless…

Grey blue tears the bitter sobs haunted the cavern. The unrequited love's song upheaval…

Echoed on and on and on…

* * *

Christine freed her hair from the pink silk ribbon, letting it cascade down her back in a waterfall of russet brown curls as she danced to a tune Raoul had been humming today.

She fell into a fond reverie…

Raoul had been courting her for the past three weeks, he had woven her a vibrant dream of chocolates and perfumes, flowers and afternoon walks in the park.

Chivalrous, dashing, romantic and self-assured, Raoul had touched her heart with the tenderness of a snowflake slowly falling into a clear pond.

Christine was in flames, her soul afire.

But her heart was wanting, wishing to taste a kiss forbidden, all the more enticing…

She longed to close her eyes and let _his_ music fill her spirit, free it from its earthly shackles and soar in exploration of dark, phantastic dimensions.

_He_ had not come back, after the night on the rooftop.

Raoul had been vexed, outraged, ready to call the gendarmes to hunt down the murderer.

Christine had assured him with false promises, pleading him not to involve the authorities, to which he grudgingly obliged.

And the Phantom had become a myth once again…

"Angel…"

She sighed in bitter regret.

Try as she might, Christine could not silence the memories of music…where the winding crossroads of desire led to a temple of nocturnal splendour.

A sanctuary of horrors more likely.

A question burned in her mind, begged to be answered.

And echoed into the hollow, dismal darkness that provided no response, no comfort, not at all.


	16. Confessions Dangereuses

**Author's note: I know some of you will not like this chapter as it contains Raoul/Christine and Erik/Meg interaction, but it's necessary for the character development, and I don't think will be repeated anyways. By the way we're getting close to the masquerade, which will feature in the next part of the story.**

**I need your feedback on this chapter please guys.**

**MorganLeFay99: The quotes are mostly taken from here and there, my books, internet's a good source too, Theatre of Tragedy is a fantastic band of Austrian Goth/doom metal music. The quotes I used are from the album; Velvet Darkness They Fear. Highly recommended if you're a fan of the genre.

* * *

**

**"Immature love says: 'I love you because I need you.'  
Mature love says: 'I need you because I love you'**

**-Erich Fromm **

"My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred;  
And I myself see not the bottom of it."

**-William Shakespeare

* * *

**

Beneath a pale brooding sky, the seagulls circled the air low over the water, waves thundering against the rocks and the sandy shore. The air was cold and heavy with coming storm.

"Have you ordered your dress for the masquerade, Christine? We have less than a week." Inquired Raoul with his usual cheerfulness, pushing his hair out of his eyes, as the wind played upon the loose flaxen tendrils.

Christine glanced up, her smile faint and distant as the clouded setting sun.

"I'm making my own dress, Raoul."

His soft grin was a beam of sunshine warming her heart with its benevolent light.

"Is that so? Let me guess, a gown of cornflower blue, or maybe pretty pink for Little Lotte? Well, it matters little, whatever you wear, your beauty is bound to turn heads, whether it be inbreeches or a dress."

Christine blushed, turning her gaze toward the sea, watching each wave roll inward and crash into the shoreline, a small smile playing over her lips as she remembered a young, valiant boy rescuing a rebellious red scarf from the merciless waves years ago.

Raoul softly gazed down at her every now and then, watching her dark hair whipping about her waistline, entwining their fingers together.

A small sigh went unnoticed as Christine pondered in silence. Everytime she closed her eyes, she found herself in a black wedding dress, crimson flowers in her hair, haunted by a dream that was not her own. She ached with a silent, unnamed longing.

"Red, Raoul." Said she, an enigmatic twinkle in her clear brown eyes.

He paused beside her. "Excuse me?" He asked, slightly confused.

"I'll be wearing red for the masquerade ball." Christine said, her face suddenly lighting up.

A white gloved hand rubbed her cheek affectionately. Christine placed a hand on the back of his neck in a bold move, tilting her face up to his, her lips parted slightly.

Raoul shuddered as she brushed her satiny soft lips against his lightly, savouring the exquisite sensation. Christine closed her eyes in eager anticipation, trembling with the memory of a first kiss heated with dark passions on the opera rooftop…

The kiss never came. Instead, he took her hand in his gently.

"Christine, I require your hand in marriage for that."

Her eyes flicked open, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and disappointment, trying to keep from looking like a complete fool at the same time. It was only a kiss for heaven's sake…

"Raoul, please don't jest." She laughed nervously.

"But I'm not, Christine." He said, an unusually serious expression crossing his handsome face.

She blinked up at him, suddenly afraid.

"What happened to us, Christine?" Raoul asked in a quiet voice, looking out over the turbulent sea with shadowed eyes, the teal blue irises darkening to an almost violet shade.

His question caught her completely unawares. "What do you mean, Raoul?"

He let her hand slip from his, leaning against the railing, his eyes averted sideways to the horizon in flames with the crimson of sunset.

"When we were young, we had no troubles, nothing between us but dreams of fairy castles and cotton candies."

"You're talking in riddles, Raoul."

The young man turned his gaze from the sunset streaked ocean to look at her beauteous face, his expression shuttered.

"What is love, Christine?" He continued, his voice gentler this time.

She pondered his question for long moments. "Love is what wefeel for each other, Raoul." She said finally.

"Whomever attempts to define love is the biggest fool on earth, but let me be a fool for you, Christine. Love is tolerance, understanding, mutual respect and ability to forgive and forget…Love is laughing in joy and crying in sorrow together. Are childhood dreams enough to sustain an everlasting love?"

"I… I guess we grew up, Raoul. But, we're together now, aren't we? So, I would say yes."

"You're right when you said we grew up. When fate finally decided to reunite us, we were practically strangers, Christine. But…since we parted, not a day passed I didn't think about you. Have you ever thought about me?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. " Why are you doing this to me?"

"Oh Christine…Please don't cry. I didn't mean to make you upset. All I want is to do the right thing by you, all that I have, all that I am, is yours. But is it enough to sustain you, Christine? Am I good enough for you?"

"Of course you are! If you weren't why would I choose you over …" She trailed off, horrified at what she had just said.

He gave a slight understanding nod. "Whatever you've done in the past, I promise not to hold against you, because I trust you, Christine."

"So… you know?" Her voice trembled.

He nodded again.

"He is…he was… my tutor, Raoul, my maestro. My angel of music."

"I don't know who this man is, this Phantom. All I know is that he's a murderer, Christine, manipulator of the highest order, a very dangerous man."

"You haven't seen what I have seen, Raoul." She said with a cryptic tone.

He reached into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, pulling out a small piece of jewellery.

Christine blinked, staring open-mouthed, then gasping in delight. In his hand sparkled a gold engagement ring, blue-white cut diamonds arranged beautifully within a lyre motif.

"Now see this, Christine. See me."

Her eyes misted, near tears. A new surge of conflicting emotions seized her heart, she found herself laughing as he cuddled her into his body…Daylight had disappeared, but Raoul's love for her was a shining beacon that would never fade.

* * *

Meg climbed down the stairs into the dank cellar, setting the food basket on a dusty wooden crate, chewing on a nail anxiously as she waited. Shortly after, there was a quiet noise coming from the wall, like that of a panel sliding on the other side. Meg pulled her green shawl tighter around her, shuddering at the sight of a man she adored and resented. 

The Phantom was garbed in his immaculate black trousers and a fresh, snow white linen shirt open at the neck. How he appeared to be unaffected by the freezing cold weather daunted her.

As he stepped into the light of the lantern, she could see tiny spots of red staining his white shirt. Wine red. Blood Red.

Her insides twisted into a tight knot, her heart racing to a strange tune of dread thrill at being in such a close proximity to Death's chill presence.

Cold, hypnotic eyes acknowledged her through the mask, his head inclining briefly.

He strode across the room with a slow, predatory grace, a gloved hand reached for the basket.

Summoning all her courage, Meg stepped near, rouged lips whispering hurriedly, excitedly.

"Please take me down with you, tonight! Only for a little! Just for tonight, please, Erik?"

Narrowed ice-bound grey eyes riveted on her. "For the last time, Meg, my answer is no." He murmured darkly.

"But I have news for you…About Christine." She whispered in deliberate slowness, which soon turned into a sharp intake of a muffled gasp as his hand seized her wrist in an iron grip.

"Haven't you learned, already, not to play games with me, mademoiselle? If you have something to tell, then say it here and quickly before I lose my patience." His velvety voice dripped with honeyed venom.

The ballerina's angular, pixie face grimaced at the softly malevolent tone of his voice that stabbed at her heart with a hundred vicious daggers.

"And what if I don't? What will you do? Kill me like that scoundrel Buquet?" Meg cried.

"I'm tempted to do just that, mademoiselle, if you don't keep your words at a hush." He hissed, his grip tightening painfully around her wrist, his darken silk whisper sending tingles down her spine.

"I'm sorry, Erik." Her voice dropped to a low whisper, looking up to his face, surprised to finddark shadowsunder his bloodshot left eye.

"Very well, I will indulge you this once, but I warn you, once you step into my world, you're on your own." He slipped into the dark passage, pulling Meg after him.

* * *

Rain had stopped hours ago, beclouded sky softly lit with the first rays of dawn, rousing Rurik from sleep. 

He glanced out of the window, running a hand through his tousled dark hair. The weather was clearing, a good sign for a long journey ahead.

He donned his trousers and white shirt, then the black robes over it, leaving it unbuttoned as he started packing his small suitcase. He took his Bible from the shelf and stroked the worn leather cover reverently, tucking his aunt's sealed envelope between its gilded pages, then placed the book on top of his neatly folded clothes.

His gaze went to the brown pouch.

What lay inside was not meant for his eyes, but his curiosity was becoming an unbearable burden. Especially after the odd conversation with Petru. Thankfully, the old Romany had been forthcoming with information, although reluctantly so.

Rurik muttered a prayer and emptied the pouch into his hand, unwrapping slowly the small square of saffron silk, revealing an antique signet ring. Rurik held it up to the light filtering through the window, examining the ring intently.

Made of gold, the ring was mounted with a large crest set on a polished black onyx centre stone; a coat of arms bearing s black cross, an intricately sculpted upside down winged red dragon hanging from it. Below the emblem was a small Latin inscription and a name:

Draconis concido, Morte ascendo: Radu Basarab.

Why was the name so familiar…so ill-boding?

Uneasiness crept into Rurik's heart as he read the latin words…

_Dragon descends, Death ascends._

He couldn't shrug off the rather disturbing feeling he was being watched by a presence beyond human ken…subtly omnipresent at the edges of his awareness…

Something that was not all benevolent…

A thin, elderly woman appeared at the doorway, interrupting his morbid reverie. Slipping the ring hastily back into the pouch, Rurik greeted Anica with a smile.

"Breakfast is ready, father."

"Please, Anica, you must call me Rurik. We've known each other too long."

The woman nodded. "How long will you be gone, Rurik…that is, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I do not know, hopefully not for long." Seeing the old woman's worried face he added as an afterthought.

"Do not fret, Stefan will run the estate while I'm gone. It's going to be all right."

"Is it, really?" She muttered, more to herself than him, her gaze vacant. "Do you think you will find _him_?"

Rurik's sage green eyes stared off contemplatively. "If God wills it."

Anica twisted her apron nervously, her eyes downcast. "It should be a strange reunion indeed. Oh sweet Lord…He would resent me! But I'm not worried about that…no."

"What are you worried about then?" He closed his suitcase.

The old maid sighed. "I don't know…His face…that face…He's not like you and me."

"He couldn't help his face, Anica. He's a child of God, like you and me." He said firmly.

"It's not his face that troubles me so much as his…" She crossed herself quickly. "Never mind."

Rurik sighed in exasperation, wondering why she and that senile old gypsy feared Alexej so much.

"I remember…He would look at you and you'd think you were staring into the abyss, he could be so gentle but so unfeeling too…And the way he would play that violin like he was possessed." Anica mused absently, lost in memories.

"So, he was fond of music?" Asked Rurik casually.

"Very much so. It was his life, his sole enjoyment. He was truly happy only when he played his music. Even the countess would be moved to tears upon hearing it. Everyone, except his father. He hated it."

"Why did he hate it?"

Anica gave a slight shrug. "Who knows? Even the smallest things angered the Count. He was very short of temper, God bless his soul."

"Yes, I heard as much." Rurik reflected. "What happened to him?"

"He died of syphilis as far as I know. Even on his death bed he rejected the Christ's outstretched hand." Anica sighed. "It was awful, he was delirious, babbling about dragons and such."

Rurik's cut his gaze to Anica sharply.

"Dragons? Why would he be talking about dragons?"

"As his illness turned worse, the poor man became more senile." She shrugged her thin, drooped shoulders.

"I see." Said Rurik. "Tell me more."

* * *

The Phantom's lair was every bit as darkly eccentric as Meg had imagined. In the dimness of the candlelight, a legion of shadows fell across the walls and the stone floor of the cavern. 

Erik gestured to a chair for her to sit. Enchanted and unnerved, she obeyed, casting her eyes around irregularly, trying to take it all in.

"Who would have thought such a place could exist beneath the opera?" It's fantastic!"

"What's beneath this cavern is not very fantastic." Erik said dryly.

"You mean to say there are lower levels down below!" Meg asked, dumbfounded.

"Absolutely."

She kept her heightening fear in check.

"Now, what do you have to tell me about the wayward pupil of mine?" He couldn't bring himself to utter her name…

"The Vicomte proposed to her, Erik. She seemed so happy." Meg responded in a low voice.

The stern lines of his masked face grew darker, if such a thing were possible, for only a split second eyes blazed with the fire of his anguish. Then it was gone just as quickly, like a ripple disappearing on the surface of a clear, depthless lake. No emotion lingered, not even a twitch of a sensual lip. Nothing.

Only, the innate aura of imminent danger surrounding him intensified to a suffocating darkness.

The grim reality of what she'd just done, and what he was capable of doing, left Meg with a horrid sensation of guilt and self-disgust.

"Please don't hurt Christine!" Fear now evident in her voice.

"Don't be absurd." He grumbled darkly. His sharp grey gaze riveted on her. "It's not her fault that idiot's in love with her."

Meg's eyes went wide, was this the volatile, vindictive, dangerous man speaking in such icy controlled calm in such a civilized demeanour? In a way, this unnerved Meg even more so.

"What are you going to do?" She asked anxiously.

Erik stared over the lake in silence. Like the quiet before a storm…He then returned his attention on her, his eyes penetrating her very soul with a grey sliver of ice.

"Why the sudden interest, mademoiselle?"

Meg flushed uncomfortably. "She's my friend. I care about her very much."

"I never noticed." He said in a deep, brusque tone.

"Regardless, I have just the perfect wedding gift. Christine deserves no less." He said ominously, glancing over to the red-leather bound folder.

"You're in love with her aren't you?"

"Yes." Much to her surprise, his words were not uttered in bitter sarcasm, rather, they came out in a soft whisper, touched by the indescribable pain of his burden, of years of rejection and longing.

Then his expression was once more guarded, aloof, distant.

What she heard next sent chill shivers down her spine, Meg regarded him in terrified silence, letting the sound of his ascending voice fill the cavern, fill her mind with its dreadful darkness.

He was laughing.

* * *


	17. Masquerade Part 1: Passion D'Écarlate

**Author's Note: Happy Easter everyone! I certainly enjoyed my long holiday, it was a much anticipated and much needed break, and now I'm back for more, just for you!****After (reluctantly) torturing you with a session of Raoul/Christine, I think it is only fair I should make up for it with a long chapter of Erik/Christine. **

**Be forewarned, however, there is a graphic description or two, only ever so slightly.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

"**During a carnival, men put on masks over their masks."**

**-Xavier Forneret

* * *

**

"**In the end you will submit**

**It's got to hurt a little bit."**

**-New Order, "Perfect Kiss"

* * *

**

"**So we must love while these moments are still called today,**

**Take part in the pain of this passion play,**

**Stretching out youth as we must,**

**Until we are ashes and dust,**

**Until time makes history of us."**

**-Indigo Girls

* * *

**

The black wings of the night had spread over Paris, moonless eventide claiming the sky its own, but Opera Populaire was a shining beacon against its smothering dark embrace with its lights bright as day and fireworks.

For tonight, was the masquerade; a carnival of masks, of swirling black and white capes, shimmering gold and silver gowns and lavish costumes, the orchestra playing a merry, fast paced waltz, to which guests danced excitedly.

Christine, alluring in her scarlet gown, like a flaming banner amidst the more sombre theme of the masquerade ball, let her body sway gracefully to the music, led by Raoul, splendid in his black suit, embroidered intricately in gold.

Danced on the young couple to the frenzied tempo of the waltz, their laughter joining that of the crowd.

Masks flashed past Christine, glimpses of a jester here and a black harlequin there; satin and leather, papier mache, gilded and pearled, metallic and white, masks everywhere…closing in on her, mocking and accusing, their demonic laughter echoing all around her…

Christine pulled away from Raoul, running toward a quiet spot and leaning against a marble wall, hands at her temples, her head spinning, her eyes squinted against the masked pandemonium, trying to banish the delirious illusions induced undoubtedly by too much champagne.

"What's wrong beloved?" Raoul was at her side in an instant, chiselled features darkened with a frown, a warm hand pressed to her forehead, then her cheek, free hand rubbing up and down her back soothingly in a very public display of affection.

"Please Raoul! They'll see!" A quiet hiss escaping Christine's lips as she stiffened under his touch.

"Well, let them see that I care for my fiancée, it's not a crime, Christine!" Said he somewhat irritably, then more gently. "Come, lean on me, I'll take you outside for some fresh air."

"No, that won't be necessary, Raoul. I'll be fine, I promise, I just need to be alone for a few minutes. If that's all right with you…"

A silent nod to her murmured request, sea blue eyes deeply concerned, watching her lift her skirts and run through the crowd, toward the Opera Rooftops.

The frosty air of the winter night raised goose bumps on blushed ivory skin, pink hued lips trembling, slowly Christine stepped closer to the wrought iron railing, peering down below, a red lace gloved hand placed upon a stone gargoyle.

She was shivering with cold, but on the inside her heart was a fiery furnace, unforgiving flames of guilt borne of her unvoiced yearnings for an impossible dream.

"You look ravishing in red, just as I imagined you would." A fiendishly soft, velvety smooth voice pierced the blessed silence.

A cold shiver ran up her spine, head turning reluctantly even as her eager gaze sought the owner of the voice.

Was it the champagne, or her wild imagination, that summoned the Devil himself in all his crimson glory ?

Was the devil enough to define the man that stood a few steps away, clad entirely in crimson, except for the obsidian black of his leather boots, the satin cravat and the supple leather gloves. A rapier rested at his hip, sheathed in its black scabbard. Ebony hair was slicked back, a scowling skeleton mask for a face, through which compelling eyes of steel grey gazed upon her with a luring silvery light.

One step, then another, he came forward, like a predator closing in on its trapped prey.

Christine stared, her face white with apprehension, backing away instinctively.

"How do you fare this evening, my dear?" Full lips curved in a diabolical smile, voice lowered to a wickedly sensuous tone. "My, what is the matter? You look as if you've just seen a ghost, Christine…"

She took another step back toward the edge…

It was too sudden, too unexpected…Christine tumbled backwards, flinging her arms up, crying out.

Erik lunged in an infernal speed, in a flash of movement reaching out and grabbing her arms, breaking her fall before she could plunge into the dark street below.

Christine sagged against his protective embrace, trembling uncontrollably, sobbing with relief, too shocked for words.

Erik rocked her gently in his arms, dropping soft kisses on her head, tenderly so.

"Shh…I'm here Christine, you're safe. I would never let go, my little cherub." Whispered he softly, lips pressed to her temple. A hand, warm through the glove, stroked the lustrous, silken auburn curls soothingly.

A mix of indecipherable emotions burned through Christine, engulfing her reason with flames of scarlet passion.

Puling back slightly to gaze at the skeleton masked face, she was taken aback by the intensity of his anguished, longing gaze. Within his eyes, Christine glimpsed an emotion that she'd never seen reflected in the grey depths before.

He was afraid, terrified even.

Afraid of losing her.

Possessed, entrapped within the crystal grey eyes, her hand travelled to the mask purposefully, ripping it from his face before he could react.

Erik went stiff, tensed immediately, his mouth drawn in a line of suppressed rage, words of spite springing to his lips…then utter stupefaction and astonishment….

Ignoring the ghastly, atrocious half of an unmasked face, lush, rose-hued lips found the unblemished side, lavishing it with little heated kisses, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" Whispered she, harshly, sternly, kissing his face fervently, inhaling his enticing cologne of musk and cinnamon, sensual patchouli with a hint of smoke.

"Whatever I damn please, my dear. After all, this is _my_ Opera House." Replied he, almost casually, tinge of amusement transparent in his dark silken voice.

Erik revelled in the miracle of her affection he'd always dreamed of receiving, a sheer madness, at that moment, her treachery was forgiven a hundred times over, thoughts of revenge forgotten…

His music nothing but a tuneless, disharmonised cacophony in comparison to his precious muse; the sweetest melody ever produced by the hand of God…

Too good to be true it was.

Then his lips brushed teasingly across hers, smelling the champagne on her breath…

Erik took her face in his hands, frowning deeply, reproachfully, his jaw clenched tightly as his eyes locked on the sparkling, lyre-shaped diamond engagement ring that dangled between the soft swell of her breasts from a gold chain.

His dreams plunged into the chasm of the bitter, brutal reality.

"Intoxicated, delusional and eager. How quaint, Christine. I'm flattered…Is this how much you missed me indeed?"

Christine stared into his face, still light-headed, but sober enough to silence her conscience, her fears and her doubts, just for one night.

For one night.

Her hand still clutching the skeleton mask, Christine shook her head slightly, silencing his insulting lips with a quick, delicate kiss, her body warming up despite the cold night air.

Suddenly, a leather gloved hand rested at the small of her back, pulling her tightly to him, melding their bodies together, his still-unmasked face nuzzling her slender neck, breathing in the unique scent of hers; mysterious, innocent, alluring scent of wild roses. He had been denied too long, rejected for a lifetime, put through ordeal by fire…

Chivalry be damned, he wasn't a fool to waste his chance to worship a goddess incarnate, and caught was he, in a tempest of passion's red haze painting his vision, destroying all reason in its path.

"You shall leave that fool, and return to me." Commanded he in a voice deep and husky.

"You're insane!" Christine whispered hoarsely, even as her fingers raked through his raven hair and her body arching against him.

"I think we've already established that, mademoiselle." A trail of kisses along her firm jaw line, like drops of liquid fire igniting the smouldering embers of her unschooled desires.

Agony and Rapture.

A delicious, wicked sensation it was, easily addictive, dangerous, forbidden and improper in its nature.

Would Raoul ever forgive her…Would she ever forgive herself…

"Erik!…We mustn't…" She whispered between gasps of pleasure, all her senses solely attuned to his tantalizing caresses across her back and down her sides, his breath beating upon her neck.

"You're right, my ungrateful cherub." A hiss through clenched teeth, completely frustrated and completely aroused, fiercely so.

"I mustn't touch you." A dark drawl, fingertips dancing over her skin, just above her breast, lips grazing against her throat.

"I mustn't caress you." Another hoarse, strained whisper, gloved hand cupping a soft, round breast through the carmine corset of her bodice, a tide of frenzied heat flooding through his body as he felt her body craving all his attention, craving a more intimate touch.

Christine moaned, every inch of her skin tingling from his closeness, feeling her breasts swell and tighten…

"I mustn't kiss you." A soft growl wrenched from his throat…from the very core of his anguish, the essence of his passion and angst…A hand laid on her cheek, blazing grey eyes staring long and hard into the smouldering brown of her eyes.

Erik lowered his mouth to hers, holding her gaze the whole time, giving her enough time should she change her mind, tugging ever so slightly and with an amazing tenderness ata cherry lip.

Inferno was plundered heaven, a myriad of senses afire, burning from the scorching heat of two bodies colliding, yielding to each other, his mouth greedily devouring and his tongue surging and probing, and entwining with hers.

Christine let the warmth of his body enfold her, shelter her inhis embrace…Fingers gripped his broad back desperately, her mouth opening in blissful surrender to the merciless invasion of his tongue, whimpering with the mind-numbing sensation of the kiss.

No, not a kiss, but a black spell of rapture woven from the very core of their ardour like water to lips parched with thirst.

Christine could feel his body hardening as steel from fierce tension beneath his clothes, his skin hot and flushed beneath her touch…She was momentarily startled and fascinated by the feel of the long, hard, demanding length of him pressed against her…Like hellfire licking over her naked skin, the feeling was exquisite, unique, devastating, causing her mouth to grind against his to taste more of him, to drink of him, with a renewed vigour only a frenzied acolyte on her knees to her idol would display.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, Erik broke the kiss, shuddering, his breathing shallow…The storm beginning to cease, itsdestructive tides gradually fading, but still angrily lashing from being interrupted so.

He had succumbed to his most debased, addled debauchery. Such transgression repeated once again.

There was an angry curve to his still glistening lips, a bitter frown to his face.

This was not how it was meant to be.

This was not love.

Lust, obsession, wanton desire; all an incendiary concoction to destroy his common sense, or what remained of it when she left him for that damnable pretty boy of hers.

What divine deception was this… her flawless seraph's face gazing at him with tears of humiliation flowing in silent, opalescent stream.

Once again she had fallen, come undone, her soul bared in all its tarnished, impure glory…her soul naught but a cheap harlot drunk not on wine and champagne but untamed desire…

Never felt, never experienced thus when in the company of a fair-haired champion, a childhood sweetheart, the ruler of her heart…now a burnt crushed white rose amidst the thorns and strangling vines wherein her emotions struggled to find a desperate solace.

Erik was incensed. He had taken advantage of her drunken, misguided emotions, abused her trust, monstrously so…

A moonlit vestal maiden corrupted to midnight depravity…

What irony… that every time she became completely enthralled, completely his, as if their bodies were made for each other, crafted solely to please and possess each other.

Erik snatched the mask from her hand and turned away to fit it back over his face, snarling in pure, impotent black fury that was directed only and entirely at himself.

"Curse you!"

When he turned back, she was already at the trapdoor, running away from him, from the fiend he had become.

When he was meant to be her Don Juan.

* * *

Christine took solace in the mass of people that she so wished to escape only minutes ago, the garish festivity a welcome punishment…Hiding from Raoul… how could she face him after her disgraceful act, her shameless betrayal? 

Where was he, anyway? Where had he gone?

Suddenly, the merry chaos ceased, the crowd parting in silent obedience and a fearful murmur or two to make way for the Red Death descending the marble stairs.

"Fondest greetings to you all, did you miss me, good monsieurs?" Spoke the Phantom, his voice an all encompassing, dark echo across the entire room.

Then an eerie thud following, as a large, red leather bound manuscript landed at Andre's feet, costume and set sketches and music sheets falling out…

Cold eyes slid without interest over every stunned person in the room, until they came to Christine.

Then, like dawning lambent flame colliding with supreme, ravaging night tide, Raoul emerged from the mesmerized crowd, then was frozen to his spot, narrowed, angry eyes snapping to the Phantom of the Opera.

And glimpsing into the abyss.

Prometheus beheld Hades.

Raoul felt his blood drain that moment, as Erik drifted his eyes to his and held his gaze, like a serpent mesmerizing its prey before the slow, painful kill.

Those eyes…A depthless void that devoured all life near him, drawing them to his blackness, leaving them with an odd sensation of being drained, spent, withered and consumed in the wake of his destructive darkness.

Raoul was afraid, undoubtedly so.

And he was angry, righteously so.

He could not let Christine become the Phantom's prey.

He loved her, profoundly so.

As the guests watched in utter horror, silently hypnotized by the drama unfolding before them, the Red Death reached out to the Red maiden, his hand grasping the sparkling engagement ring that hung on a dainty gold chain around her neck, rolling the little diamond encrusted lyre between his thumb and forefinger slowly as a sneer spread across his lips; a sneer of dark, grim satisfaction borne of the private knowledge of a passionate memory shared with Christine only moments ago, giving her a knowing look as he did so.

"Her chains are still mine!" Hissed the Red Death coldly, his voice strangely calm and eerily smooth, his dark, twisted half smile present the whole time as his eyes burned into Raoul's with its searing wrath, supreme, defiant and challenging.

"She belongs to me!" With that, he ripped the gold chain that held the engagement ring from Christine's throat.

Lights dimmed and unholy cloud of smoke engulfed the Phantom, who vanished down a trap door.

Without hesitation, Raoul jumped in after him.

Into the nightmare.

* * *

**-evil grin- what surprises await our poor, brave champion…and what revelations lay in store for our beloved Phantom? And what of Christine? Torn between the two of them? A graveyard visit maybe? Find out in the next chapter!**

**But do leave me with a review, my dear reader. I live for your feedback!**


	18. Masquerade Part 2: Hyperion et Tenebrion...

**Author's note: Hello my wonderful phantastic readers, I'm absolutely pleased you enjoyed the last chapter, this one's a bit long, but has E/C development, not to mention a gentlemanly Erik for the first time. (don't get used to it, though, he will be back with more conquering darkness, evilly so) Well, I'm delighted to hear your feedback, as always your support makes my day, so I would like to thank each and every one of you profoundly! –offers e-cookies and muffins of gratitude as well- **

**Anya: Thank you muchly for your review my dear. Christine will have to beware more than that. Is that gunpowder I smell? Barrels of it in fact? **

**Rooklyn: -bows- Kates is a champ herself. Merci indeed for the reviews cherie, I shall be sure to read your phanphic as well. **

**Broadwaygal: Indeed, dear, Christine has always been the true nemesis, but we shall see how things turn out for our fated trio.

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**

"**And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all…"**

**Edgar Allen Poe "Masque of the Red Death"

* * *

**

"**There were times you really made me smile**

**And there were times you really made me cry,**

**And there were times I never really knew how to feel,**

**And the fear made you so unsure of me**

**What you needed was to be rid of me."**

**-Anathema "Electricity"

* * *

**

**They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.**

**-William Shakespeare**

**Let go of your worries**

**and be completely clear-hearted,**

**like the face of a mirror**

**that contains no images.**

**If you want a clear mirror,**

**behold yourself**

**and see the shameless truth,**

**which the mirror reflects.**

**If metal can be polished**

**to a mirror-like finish,**

**what polishing might the mirror**

**of the heart require?**

**Between the mirror and the heart**

**is this single difference:**

**the heart conceals secrets,**

**while the mirror does not.**

**-Rumi

* * *

**

Dropped down into the dark chamber Raoul did, chasing after the Phantom, rapier drawn. Momentarily disoriented he was, not from the fall but from the bizarre interior of the room he found himself in.

With no visible exit, surrounded on all sides by numerous full-size mirrors, reflecting his image all around him, grotesquely so.

Fear awaited crouched in the dark of his mind, ready to leap and devour his valour at the first sign of hesitation.

Sweat covered a pallid face expertly drawn by a Raphaelite brush, hand tightened on the hilt of the rapier until knuckles went white.

A flash of a red cloak among the twisted apparitions, then a fleeting glimpse of a white mask across the looking glass, slithering shadows mockingly rippling and pulsing unnaturally with unholy life of their own.

Sapphire blue eyes darted about in search of an adversary; the possessor of foulest magicks, the darkest phantasy personified.

"Show yourself! Face me goddamn you!" A frustrated snarl.

In delirious anger Raoul began to smash the mirrors, one by one the misshapen reflections destroyed, the sound of breaking glass echoing hollowly throughout.

With every mirror shattered, the lights dimmed lower, burying the room in a semi-darkness.

To the last mirror came he, glaring hard at the ghastly weaved illusion within the polished depths that was his image, a travesty strangely entrancing, an inanimate puppeteer advancing, sweat-drenched golden hair fell over a demonically deformed face, body hideously warped in reality defying dimensions.

Eyes drifted past the horrid reflection to the Punjab lasso hovering in the air directly behind his head.

Reflexively Raoul ducked out of its way, consequently turning his back to the unbroken mirror.

Emerged the Red Death like a crimson-winged nightmare with fiery aura, descending on chariots of black flames.

Raoul whirled around, instantly taking a defensive stance, his rapier raised to parry the deadly blow of the Phantom blade, launching a counter attack of his own, deftly so.

A mighty sweep of Raoul's rapier slashed across the side of the Phantom's neck, barely missing the masked face.

A slight twitch of lips, nothing more.

Blood flowed, seeped into the crimson collar.

Agile Raoul was, a skilled swordsman, but the Red Death was a fearsome foe, his tremendous strength and speed making up for whatever he lacked in technique, eventually forcing Raoul to a corner.

The violent, accurate thrusts of the Phantom's sword were met with timely swings of the rapier. Suddenly lunging forward, the Red Death slammed himself bodily into Raoul, pinning him against the wall with a bone-shattering intensity. The rapier flew from Raoul's hands, falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

Caught off-balance, he was forced to his knees with inhuman strength, hands were tied tightly behind his back swiftly with thick ropes, Punjab lasso catching him by the neck.

Ensnared Raoul was, Hyperion humbled and defeated.

A voice soul-chilling, bitterly venomous, tinged with a haunting melody of rattling black chains of fury lashing across Raoul's sanity, blotting out the deafening echo of his thundering heart, reverberated through the room.

"How would you like to die, Vicomte? Quickly or slowly? Choose!"

"My death won't make Christine love you!" With effort Raoul managed to spit the words.

He winced as steel met flesh, a searing pain eliciting a howl of agony from his lips; the Phantom's skull hilted blade was buried deep into his right shoulder, cleaving through muscle and sinew.

Then the sword was savagely pulled out of his flesh, dripping hot crimson ichor.

The cold tip of the steel was now against his right cheek, gliding down slowly, caressingly so.

Teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the quietus strike.

It never came.

Instead there was an astonishingly tender touch of a hand around his arm, helping him up.

Eyes slid open a hint, then widened, the Phantom was nowhere to be seen, his timely benefactor was a tall, willowy woman still beautiful in her mid forties, formidable, quiet and disciplined, yet now afraid and elusive.

Madame Giry.

His hands freed, Raoul rubbed his bruised, aching wrists, wincing at the throbbing pain of his wound.

He staggered after the ballet instructor, through a narrow corridor.

"Madame Giry! How did you get here? Please Madame, you must tell me what in the name of God is going on here! For all our sakes!"

The woman paused, glancing over her shoulder, her pale green eyes shuttered and guarded.

"I know nothing, monsieur. But I will tell you this, keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"

* * *

Black December morn. Smoky clouds; masses of dusky mauve and dirty grey across a leaden sky above a slumberous Paris, first rays of a dawning wintry sun obliterated, promises of more rain and gloom for the coming day.

A lone figure she was, a young woman walking briskly through weather beaten, marble tombs, elaborate, decrepit monuments, and carved stone angels sombre in their vigil.

Silence surrounded Christine, like the cold morning mist that hung low over the grand cemetery like a benign shroud.

Somewhere in the distance the sound of church bells tolling. And silence imparted upon a dismal caw of a raven perched on the twisted branches of a winter-barren tree, a hushed rustle of the black velvet of a mourning dress and a long cape in the snow.

Beauteous face was a blank mask, carefully hiding a restless heart's tears, ashen cheeks tinted to a soft rose from early frost, wide eyes embrowned to a dolorous dark shade of sorrow.

Stopping before the snow covered wide stone steps of her father's mausoleum, Christine knelt down with a fluid balletic grace, laying the garland of cardinal red roses upon the snow.

The withered petals of the darkened and wilted ones among the bouquet fell silent, a dreary echo of her crushed dreams.

Lowered feathery dark lashes veiled unshed tears, though she was determined not to cry, carmine lips did not quiver, eyes of soft brown clear and bright through the haze of uncertainty and indecisiveness her true quietly dignified spirit surfacing.

Prayer-touched lips whispered in lament.

"No more memories, no more silent tears. Why can't the past just die…? Father, help me say goodbye."

Then a spectral voice was heard from the hallowed crypt, like sable velvet warm and alluring.

"Wandering child, so lost and helpless, yearning for my guidance."

His voice…that once chased away her nightmares with soothing lullabies sung from the shadows, now had become the crux of nightmares of most dreadful sort.

Christine looked up in bewilderment, regarding the slowly opening iron gates of the crypt with astonishment and trepidation.

Her face bathed in the soft orange-amber glow of a light spilling from the marble interior, warm and inviting.

Recoiled she, and drawn at the same time to the mysterious light that beckoned her in.

Christine ascended the steps toward the heavenly illumination, her reason screaming for her to stop, to resist the unholy enchantment, yet her soul ached to surrender.

Christine halted on the last step, reluctantly so, exerting her will over her longing heart.

"Angel or Father…Friend or Phantom? Who is it there staring?" An unsure cast to her clear, lyrical voice.

"Have you forgotten your Angel?" The phantasmal voice took the shape of Erik, once more to haunt Christine with its overpowering tenebrosity.

Christine's gaze fell on the black boots first, travelled slowly up the black satin clad muscular legs and steel defined powerful thighs, over the gold trimmed maroon waistcoat that fitted his tall frame elegantly, past the collar of the crisp white shirt and the ebon folds of the voluminous velvet cape about his broad shoulders, to the face carved and adonized to diabolical perfection with strong, proud lines, the right side masked to hide a gruesome half like a vicious curse.

She did not flinch under his arresting gaze, not this time.

"It's the devil I cannot forget, once my only companion, my Angel of Music."

"Amazing, is this really coming from a woman who literally begged for my touch only a night afore? Haven't you tired of this little game of pretence, my cherub?"

Erik drew near, his powerful presence commanding all her attention. A faint perfume of red musk and dead flowers emanated from him, a rich, heavy scent more potent than the fumes of any mortiferous poison. In a way, it added an odd spice to the cold charm he exuded.

Her resolve wavered slightly, eyes averted in a girlish gesture that never failed to rouse the tender, protective instinct within Erik.

A shaky sigh was drawn. "I know I'm not faultless, forgive me. But we must say goodbye now, Erik. I'm sorry."

Tensely awaited she, a white, delicate hand rested on her breast as if to ward off the anticipated harsh, sarcastic and disdainful response.

A humourless smile settled on his lips. "Come, walk with me a while." Said he, and offered his arm to her, in a purely gentlemanly fashion.

Hesitation was manifest in her radiant face. The cemetery was hardly the appropriate place to take a delightful little morning stroll.

"Indulge me, Christine." Whispered he, his arm extended still.

Slowly, she hooked her arm with his, wondering at her own foolishness as they began to walk together through the cemetery at a fairly slow pace, for a while listening to the sound of their own footfalls in the snow. A muffled, pleasant, tranquil sound that clashed with all that was Erik.

Finding a seat on a bench, he waited until she sat, then took his place next to her.

The view was magnificent to say the least, a rising sun painting the horizon with streaks of brightest ivory gold, the oppressive gloomy sky a gentle saffron shade. The high majestic steeple of Notre Dame de Paris ascending like a grand celestial monolith, the cerulean waters of the Seine shimmering, and the high song of the birds greeting morning tide.

Grey eyes beneath black lashes were strangely iridescent, almost a lapis lazuli cast with the play of auroral light Christine fancied.

"I remember, back in Romania, the sunrise was a delight to watch, you could not feel its warmth as much, yet you would take comfort in its radiance regardless."

"Romania?" Christine asked buoyantly, curiously.

"Yes, the place where I was born, and called home for eight years or so."

Christine arched an eyebrow in fresh inquisitiveness.

"I just realized, Erik, I don't know anything about you. I don't know you at all." She murmured.

"All you have to do is ask, Christine." Said he, a hint of a smile warming the stern, cold face.

Christine stared off toward the horizon, a thoughtful sadness creeping into her voice.

"I thought you weren't fond of daylight."

Erik offered a slight nod to her words. "I don't see the dawn often as you might have guessed, so I might as well enjoy it."

Christine was slightly puzzled, the man sitting next to her, talking to her in such a casual, friendly manner had nearly killed Raoul, her betrothed.

"What have you done to Raoul, Erik? He was badly wounded when he came out."

"Nothing he wouldn't do to me." He said simply.

Her doubts momentarily dissolved as he reached for her, barest of touches, really; fingers lightly tucking a wayward chestnut curl behind her ear in a rare display of affection.

True, he was a cold-blooded murderer, a pitiless villain, cruel, remorseless and vindictive.

Also true it was that he was tenacious and fearless, untouchably noble in his own way, a musical god, and was possessed of a single minded devotion to her, however twisted it may be.

"I miss your voice, your songs." Said she dreamily gazing out over the Parisian panorama of scented daybreak.

He turned to her, observing her face with silvery grey eyes for a lengthy moment, his voice a low, intense whisper.

"Come with me, Christine. We could leave now, this instant! Go away somewhere where no body knows us, where there can be no reminders of our past to haunt us. Just say the word, Christine, and I'll follow you, just say yes and I'll make it happen."

Her heart beat with a wild rhythm to his own, wondering if she just made it clear how astounding that offer was by only her startled and surprised expression, secretly excited.

"You're asking me the impossible, Erik…" Breathed Christine.

"Really? I remember Gustav once asked me the impossible as well."

Christine glanced up sharply. "You knew my father?"

"Oh yes, very much so. He trusted me enough to place his only precious child in my care. So why can't you trust me, Christine? Is it my face that repels you so?"

A wistful sigh at the peaceful moment interrupted, a rude awakening from a dream it seemed.

"No, it's not your face, Erik. You have no regard for human life, you live by your own rules, yours is a dark world of night, I'm not sure I can be a part of it." Softest voice carrying a straightforward honesty.

Sorcerous grey eyes set upon her without emotion.

_You will learn to be a part of it._

"Is that your final word to me, Christine?"

She nodded quietly, holding back hot tears.

He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear, seductively so. "Then kiss me. Make the best of it, Christine, if it's our last kiss." Darkly erotic was his voice, a pulsing song of temptation ascending in vicious triumph.

A shudder went through her being, fidgeting under his touch, senses inflamed.

He covered her mouth with his own possessively, then, drinking deeply her honeyed desire, tongues writhed together and hands entwined, passions tangled in rich liquescent bloodlet cadence as her desire a black hex soared, a naked, stark need to feel him all around her, against her and inside her, deeply and ferociously so.

A black kiss in a cemetery witnessed by sculpted angels, two kindred souls found solace and refuge in its sacred privacy, blasphemously so.

All reason rotted and dead to her lust, yet Christine knew if she continued to yield to his will, succumb to his ardour, there would be no going back.

Erik let her feel the powerful flow of the font that was his heart, rushing in roaring intensity.

His love for her was an unstoppable tide of an ocean crashing against a rocky shore, everlasting raging fires of a volcano erupting, solid and unyielding as the pure black earth, an incessant hurricane destroying all that opposed to his heart's desire.

An amaranthine, fierce dedication that offered an uncertain future, full of endless possibilities and secrets to be unveiled, but also the complete and unshakable devotion, constant and unsurpassed midnight worship, a mighty nemesis to Raoul's ephemeral, flimsy and insubstantial attractions that could give nothing but a temporary anchor of false security and tenderness that would never be enough to sustain a siren that was Christine.

How naïve she was now, so young, delicate and sensitive, yet so strong, unaware of her own courageous spirit, her sincere inner beauty that was embodied in her physical perfection, the rarest rose of finest cerise in bloom to be watched and adored from a distance, and never to be touched or plucked by unworthy hands.

No, this was certainly not a goodbye.

The beginning of Don Juan ready to conquer.

* * *


	19. Devil's Night: Don Juan Triumphant

**Author's note: Hello again my dears, here it comes, Don Juan, finally. (I just LOVE thatbit in the movie.) I was fantasizing about Gerry Butler the whole time as I wrote this chapter… –just melts- You will also notice some changes in Raoul's personality, but not drastically so. I'm sure you will quickly see the reason behind it anyways! I think this scene will also answer the earlier question a reviewer asked before. **

**Rooklyn: -le blush- Wow, many thanks for your compliments, I'm glad you're enjoying this dear. Rurik will definitely be in the next chapter, I've already written his part, he will neither be Nadir, nor a quickie update, but something inbetween. : ) **

**Also, I'm not a R/C shipper, cute they may be together.**

**Kates: -dies as well- Grateful for your feedback mon cherie, I'm thrilled and delighted you're liking this, your support means a lot. –hugs-**

**Padme Nijiri: Gah, I didn't mean that last sentence to be a fragment but anyways, gotta triple-check next time. Thank you indeed!**

**And of course, a BIG thank you goes to all of my reviewers, and readers.

* * *

**

"**Le Coeur a ses raisons**

**Que la raison ne connait point."**

**(Heart has its reasons,**

**Whereof reason knows nothing)**

**-Pascal

* * *

**

"**The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,**

**And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears**

**The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,**

**And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears"**

**-Sir Walter Scott, "Lady of the Lake"

* * *

**

"**She loved him too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness"**

**-E.M. Forster

* * *

**

"**To love someone means to see him as God intended him."**

**-Fyodor Dostoyevsky

* * *

**

The chapel of Opera Populaire was filled with the soft luminescent radiance of the dozen candles by Gustav Daae's plaque.

The fading amber light of the coral-sienna streaked afternoon filtered through the stained glass window, and danced a myriad of rainbow colours on the stone floor.

Christine stood before her father's memorial, much like the way she did some ten years ago, when she first came to live in the opera.

Now, in her eyes were not tears of mourning shimmering, but a cool, solemn thoughtfulness of someone making an important decision.

She reached out a hand, lovingly tracing a finger down the bronze edge of the plaque, her eyes softened with memories.

In her other hand was clutched a fragrant crimson rose, the velvet petals darkly and perfectly bloomed, its thorny stem tied with a black silk ribbon.

In her mind danced a picture of how Erik and her father might have sat together in those high-backed, saffron cushioned chairs back in her old house, maybe conversing about a violin composition, or mayhap about Romania, sipping amber brandy perhaps, or rose wine, like old friends…

A slight smile tugged at her lips as she imagined the way her father would listen with the patience of a Greek sage, never interrupting, maybe a nod of his head at a particular heated comment as Erik talked about music; so vehemently and zealously, and with passionate authority.

Her father had regarded Erik as a trusted friend, and so had Madame Giry; the two important people Christine always looked up to. To them, Erik was not the foul Opera Ghost, a freak of nature, but a human being with immense talent and potential.

A sudden flicker of sympathy flared in her heart, what a bitter, twisted fate it was, that such an intelligent, brilliant man should never see daylight, instead holed up in some cold, dank underground cavern in solitude, as a slave and master.

She should regard him as a father figure, a cherished mentor, Christine thought, but it was not to be so. Her traitorous body would never allow it.

Was it only lust…That rich, hot, darkest lust attracted her to him? Or something , a feeling more deep seated than base instinct, the low embers of a secret emotion she could not yet identify, where the sparks of passion had sprung and ignited, a slow burning fire that fed upon itself and grew stronger, only to flare into a full glorious blaze every time he was near…

Christine turned her distracted gaze to the stairs, where Raoul had been standing for the last good five minutes in shadow, silent in his brooding observation.

With sorrow, Christine noted he had been drifting into unnatural, melancholy silences as of late, merging after the masquerade ball, forced smiles masked his once jovial face.

He was upset, and she didn't blame him.

Most worryingly, he was jealous.

There was a shuttered, slightly agitated edge to his mannerisms now, although he kept his voice at its usual soft tenderness when he spoke to her.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, all day, where have you been, Christine?" He asked quietly, his eyes a stormy ocean, a dark, murky blue in turmoil.

_Obviously you haven't been looking very hard, beloved…_

"I was at the cemetery." Christine said slowly, cautiously.

He paced toward her, searching her face. The normally impeccably dressed, suave man looked rather haggard in his wrinkled white shirt and creased dark grey trousers. The flaxen hair was left untied to fall about his face, dull and lanky.

"With _him_?" Inquired Raoul, in a bland, toneless voice, his eyes drifting downward to the red rose in her hand. Christine followed the line of his gaze, and blanched, but made no attempt to hide the rose. She held it still, though her grasp had loosened a little.

"Yes, I was saying only goodbye."

"How can you be so naïve Christine! Do you really think he will let you go? Do you think that man has the honour to respect your decision? I hardly think so!" Said Raoul, instantly regretting the tone of irritation that crept so urgently into his voice like a foul serpent…

Christine paled. "You speak as though you know him, Raoul." Said she, sullenly.

"In a manner of speaking, yes, I do know him, Christine. In the end, we both fight for the same woman, we are both stubborn and we'd rather die than give up our love." Raoul said so firmly that a sudden fear seized her heart, crushing it, as though ominously spoken words had just sealed a dark premonition of things to come…

"You don't have to fight for me, Raoul. You know I care about you so. You know I belong to you."

_Am I trying to convince him, or myself…? _

"I don't want to lose you, Christine." He added in a quieter, subdued voice, thick with emotion. "No matter, after tonight, we will be free."

Of course, the night of the grand premiere of Don Juan Triumphant. On Raoul's orders, all the exits were to be sealed and guarded by armed gendarmes, ensuring the Phantom could not escape.

There was a sudden flash of pain as Christine squeezed the rose in her hand so hard, that the thorns pricked the soft flesh of her palm and fingers viciously, blood blossoming like tiny red stars and trailing down her hand.

"Don't put me through this, Raoul…"

"He must be tried and punished for his crimes, Christine. If you perform, and play your part, he's bound to show."

"I cannot be a part of this Raoul, I can't condemn the man who was my companion, my teacher, my Angel of Music."

"How can you say that, after all he's done to us? Your _Angel_ is a murderer and a madman, Christine, don't you see? He will never let us be happy; he will haunt us till the end….Tell me, do you love me, Christine?" He asked on a tense breath.

Tentatively, she traced her fingertips over the ugly purple bruises where the Punjab lasso caught him by the neck. Erik's wrath was imprinted upon Raoul's skin, as was his passion imprinted on her lips.

_I am to blame for all of this, no one, but me._

She faltered slightly. "You know I do."

Blood dripped onto the rose's scarlet petals, and petalsfell silentlyto the ground, as Raoul led Christine away from the chapel, squashing thecrimson flower beneath his heel as he did so.

* * *

Erik ascended from the lower recesses of his underground cavern, a part which had been lain forgotten and undisturbed by human hand for many, many years in fear of some silly superstition.

When Antoinette had first brought him down here years ago, Erik had stumbled upon a trapdoor by pure chance, the entrance had been half concealed under rock and debris, and once cleared, the cobwebbed gap had descended down into a another rocky chamber altogether, accessible by a spiral staircase.

The air down there was hot and stuffy, not cold and musty with age like his lair, and impenetrably dark. With the help of his keen eyesight, and a bright lantern, Erik had discovered an array of treasury; forbidden books, golden candlesticks, jewelled chalices, weaponry, gem studded bijou…stolen goods no doubt, stashed away, buried under layers and layers of cobweb shroud.

The baubles and trinkets he didn't care in the slightest, it was the books and the weaponry that caught his attention.

A witch's lair? Gate to Hell? What nonsense, Erik had snorted, a thieves' hideout more likely.

Besides the treasury, he had found barrels and barrels of gunpowder, vials of laudanum and sachets of arsenic. Erik had wondered as to their purpose, but now, it made sense.

Erik had arranged the barrels together with grim purpose, in the case he was found out, he would make sure no one would live to tell the tale.

Now, the fate of the opera lay on Christine's lips, lay in one word.

Tonight, it would end.

She had said goodbye, his credulous, beautiful songbird, but her eyes spoke a different story altogether.

She still loved that buffoon, for certain, but all the same, she was drawn to him as well, like a moth to searing flame, drawn to his music, responding to his touch with such fierce urge that it made him dizzy with pleasure.

She had touched his face, despite the obnoxious deformity, seeing past the horrid mask, whereas others would curse and turn away from him at best.

Tonight the game was going to be over, she had to choose.

This morning in the graveyard, Erik had felt something stir between them, something that had lain dormant had sprung to strange awakening.

She had felt it too.

That's why she had said goodbye.

Christine had more courage and backbone than he had credited her for in the beginning. That he immensely respected, but in the end, it was useless.

Going over to the mirror, Erik smoothed his hair back with faintly fragrant pomade and donned the black domino mask, hiding carefully the part where the mask failed to cover with elaborate stage make up.

He shot a longing glance to the lifeless mannequin wearing the exquisite wedding dress, the crystal flowered tiara and through the diaphanous ivory veil she smiled softly to him, upon her blood red lips were promises of joy.

Tonight.

First, he had to dispose of that corpulent, halfwit tenor Piangi.

Getting rid of him would be easy, one sharp blow to the head would keep him unconscious for hours.

He would not claim another life, even though worthless pieces of trash they were to him.

All for Christine.

He didn't want to upset her.

Besides, he was saving all his rage, all his hatred for that little worm; Vicomte de Chagny.

But, if she rejected him…

No, he didn't want to linger on his morbid thoughts any longer.

He had been tired of this game.

If he couldn't have her, then he would make sure no one else would.

With a pale smile, he stopped before the model of the Don Juan opera, snatching the little figure of Christine in his hand.

Time had come for Hades to claim his bride from the world of the living.

* * *

Everyone was ready for the gala of Don Juan Triumphant; the audience filled the auditorium and took their seats, the performers had a final session of warming up backstage, the musicians finished tuning their instruments, waiting for Monsieur Reyer, the stagehands watched upstage, the armed soldiers took their positions in the wings.

And, Aminta was ready to be seduced by Don Juan.

Everyone was prepared except Christine.

A violent shudder rippled through her.

Did she have the strength to go through with this bitter ordeal?

Did she have the courage to betray Erik, while she could still taste the delicious, wicked kiss on her lips…?

No more kisses, no more sweet music.

No more Phantom, no more Erik.

The red curtain lifted, the discordant overture began, a cacophonous symphony, its Spanish undertones barely discernible.

Christine sauntered over to the stage when it was her turn, toying with a red carnation as she did so, glancing in awe about the spectacular set décor that was a rich Spanish-Andalucian marvel; lush, dark and exotic with high Moorish pillars supporting a bridge, black and red scrims suspended from the flies, a pit of scarlet silk flames in the centre, silhouetted dancers pirouetted to a sensuous tango.

Christine heard Passarino call to his Master.

Don Juan, pretending to be Passarino, played by monsieur Ubaldo Piangi appeared from behind the curtains then.

_Passarino, go away for the trap is set, and waits for its prey…_

Christine stiffened, feeling her body grow stark rigid with shock, as she heard the voice…

A voice too velvety and sensually deep, too smooth and darkly dominant a baritone, irresistibly mesmeric, all to familiar…

Scarlet song ascendant, Don Juan Triumphant.

Erik.

Gone was the bloated, garishly dressed and made-up monsieur Piangi, instead stood a man splendid in his tight-fitting brown trousers that hug his sturdy legs and clung provocatively to defined, powerful thighs, a white frilly lawn shirt open at the front just enough for Christine to steal guilty, unabashed glances of the well-muscled contours of his broad chest sprinkled ever so lightly with fine black hair, a burgundy Spanish velvet jacket bordered with black embroidered vines, and a sweeping half-cape of the same warm, passionate shade thrown on casually so.

He wore a black domino mask through which grey-blue eyes glittered, penetratingly so.

Such eyes Christine had never seen, such a beautiful colour, a steel grey shade with soft amethyst blue specks that were now smouldering with a molten intensity.

Don Juan was magnificent, threateningly so.

He walked toward her languorously; with all the erotic grace he possessed so naturally, so casually…every step slow, deliberate.

There were sharp intakes of gasps from the female audience, first horrified and bemused; now coveting sighs, dazzled by the all masculine, enigmatic beauty of the new actor.

Christine wanted to scream! But all she could do was watch helplessly as he began to sing.

She could not take her eyes off him, nor silence the frenzied beating of her heart.

From box five, Raoul stared down at them with wide apprehensive eyes, horrified, powerless to stop the Phantom's dangerous game….

Erik knew Raoul was seething, terrified even.

It was Raoul who was cornered and ensnared.

And so, it had come to this, his grand finale, being performed for the first and last time in Opera Populaire.

_Oh, I will give them a performance they would never forget…_

Erik was aware of the peril he faced, but as he looked at Christine, he understood this was a risk that was worth taking.

Even at the cost of his life.

Her virtuous elegance undone, Christine was a breathtaking gypsy queen…her mortal beauty that would put a succubus to shame, so deceptively fragile and delicate, yet so powerful in a fiery splendour.

A low, ruby velvet corset accentuated her delicate waist and feminine curves, the dainty, lacy top of the white bodice covering her soft, round breasts, the ginger velvet skirt embroidered with yellow glass beads flowing gracefully to her ankles.

Her dark tresses were a waterfall of glossy auburn ringlets down her bare shoulders, a bright red rose tucked behind her ear. Her bright red full lips parted, her glistening brown Jezebel eyes drawing Erik sinfully closer.

And so began the cruelly romantic, intoxicatingly arousing ritual of Don Juan's seduction.

_You have come here, in pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent…_

Erik moved nearer, his steps harmonious with the music, his hand touching a creamy ivory skinned shoulder, trailing down her arm slowly, staring into her eyes.

_No second thoughts, you've decided…._

Erik suddenly came up behind Christine, molding her body to his instantly, his smooth left cheek pressed to her hair, then nuzzling her neck as he continued to sing.

Christine threw her head back, breathing heavily, shamelessly pressing herself to him, yielding to the voice that evoked a passion so strong she forgot they were on stage, performing in front of a crowd.

Instead the two of them were in a coastal Moorish tavern, in Seville mayhap, or Toledo, its lights low against a midsummer's balmy night, fragrant with bougainvillea, carnation and roses, the rich aroma of garnet Spanish wine lingered faintly in the air, gypsies dancing, one with the shadows…

_No use resisting, abandon thought and let the dream descend…_

He entwined his hand with hers, tracing it up the length of her quivering body, across her flat stomach, over her deliciously rounded, firm breasts and to his face, where his lips met for the briefest moment her fingertips before he released her hand, pressing himself harder into her back arduously, fighting the raging flames that had spread over his thighs.

The audience fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats, ladies fanning themselves, staring in open mouthed adoration of the magnetic Don Juan, men loosening their neckties and breathing harshly from the supreme erotically charged opera, the air thick with passion's raw display.

Darkly stimulating, awakening pure, unadulterated desire.

Only Raoul seemed unaffected, his hands balled to fists as he watched his fiancée being manipulated like a marionette…

_The final threshold, what warm unspoken secrets will we learn, beyond the point of no return…_

Erik removed his hand from around her neck, the contact of their tense, inflamed bodies broken unwillingly so.

Christine opened her eyes, somehow managing to sing her part.

Her voice flowed in a rushing stream of ecstatic passion, high, beautiful and vibrant, captivating all who listened.

_In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenceless and silent…_

Erik's chest heaved with each irregularly drawn breath; Christine radiated sheer fire, utterly capricious and demanding, exultant fire, kindling his own.

Her voice was a breathless temptress, enthralling and enticing Erik beyond the point of endurance.

Raoul dug his nails into his palms as he realized bitterly, Christine was not under the Phantom's control.

She was willing, completely so.

_Past the point of no return, our passion play has now at last begun…_

Don Juan and Aminta ascended their respective stairs up to the balcony, meeting at its centre. Then the pillars rotated, cutting off any access to the balcony.

_When will the flames at last consume us…?_

Christine's voice was an unsurpassed, tormentingly beautiful latria to Love's physical sculpture, burning higher.

Then, their blood racing, their voices joined together, pounding with a cadence so sharp and strong, melting together in an astounding sensation of two souls coalescing and soaring magnificently.

When the fiery aria was over, Erik dropped to one knee in front of Christine, in front of the open-mouthed audience and performers, and a devastated, shattered Raoul, disbelief and heartbreak in his teary eyes.

Erik started a gentler song, a downright tender in his divine voice dropping to an emotional serenade, holding out his hand, presenting her with a ring; an exquisitely crafted silver band mounted with a majestically carved beautiful onyx rose with ivory vines and leaves.

In that moment, time ceased to exist around Christine, isolating her and Erik from the rest of the theatre, for him she existed and breathed, only for him, and he for her.

In greyest eyes, Christine saw a man who had been lonely all his life, a man who had been denied the chance to live a normal life and rights to love and be loved…

A man who would defy God and His celestial host, the Devil and His infernal lot, a man who would challenge not only Raoul de Chagny and the whole world, but Death itself for his one true love.

Tears welled up in her eyes, how could she refuse a love so grand, perilous but infinite, and satisfying?

She, the selfish little orphan girl, who thrived on the music he wrote, whose soul clung to his very essence like ivies wed.

How could she deny her own yearning heart, bleeding, beating to his melody?

Christine could not believe this was happening, sweeping her reason on tempestuous winds.

The revelation was not easy to bear.

The revelation, her confession would be her salvation, and her damnation.

Every eye was upon them, fixed and breaths held, tensely awaiting the finale to Don Juan Triumphant.

_So, gently and resolutely I took the ring, and not rashly, but tenderly pulled off his mask, to show the world, and most importantly Erik himself, that the man I truly loved was not a monster, not the half-man they thought him to be, that I loved him with all his flaws, all his ugliness and all his beauty._

_Forgive me, Raoul. Please forgive me._

Christine was deaf to the sharp gasps and screams of their horrified and disgusted spectators as the Phantom was exposed, she was about to slip the rose engagement ring on her finger, throw her arms around him and kiss that hideous half of his face, tell him yes, like Juliet in love with her Romeo to death.

But she was completely unprepared for what was to follow.

Total disaster.

Erik gave Christine no chance to explain, and drawing his saber, cut swiftly one of the dangling red tasselled ropes, jerking her against him with an enraged strength, his face contorted and twisted in wrath, making his deformity a truly ghoulish sight.

He held her fast to him and leapt into the pit of fire below.

As Christine plunged down, and down into the hellish underground, she heard the distant echo of the great chandelier crashing to the stage, the theatre bursting into flames of Hades.

Gunshots, screams and shouts, people rushing to the barred doors.

Opera Populaire, a gruesome spectacle in flames.

Later, Epoque would give the incident a fitting title indeed; the "Devil's Night"

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	20. The Prison of Hearts

**Author's note: My dearest readers, I'd like to express my sincerest apology for delaying so long. Writer's block is a cruel, nasty little demon! My gratitude is boundless to those who took the time and supported my work with their beautiful and constructive reviews, you are the best.**

**I hope you will ignore any historical glitches and forgive my alterations in this chapter, and enjoy the story.**

**Dearest Kates: First off, sorry for keeping u waiting so long! –ducks- I'm delighted at your kind offer, tenebrion based artwork, wow, I'm honoured. By all means, go nuts!**

**Rooklyn: You know you're a champ! –hugs-**

**Witchy-grrl & MorganLeFay99 &Malthen Tinu:Your wonderful support from the beginning of this story truly inspired me, thank you so much my dears.**

**monroe-mary: A big thank you goes to you as well, and we shall see if Erik will be able to keep his Christine, or is it the other way round?**

**Anya: Thank you muchly! –hugs-**

**Padme Nijiri: You've been a blessing with your grammatical help, thanks dear! **

**Morleigh: Thank you very much for your review, dear. Yes, I'm a big sucker for romances, darkly written ones especially, and I'm very interested in mythology as well. It's a bit of both, that influences my writing, actually, though I mostly favour gothic, historical fiction with dark and morbid themes. **

**Kaity H. : Awww, thank you for your concern! That's very sweet of you! I promise, I won't leave this story unfinished!**

**And now, without further ado, I present to you, the next but not last chapter 20.

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"**He that has light within his own clear breast may sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; himself his own dungeon."**

**-John Milton, Paradise Lost.

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A dark journey into the darkest heart of Opera Populaire; passed Christine through the ancient, cobweb laced stone passageways, beneath the accusing, scowling stares of gargoyles in grim echo of a fierce, unmasked visage at her side…

Dragged she had been, by a Phantom fearsome and demonized in rage too long suppressed, snatched too suddenly from Eden.

Erik was unstoppable in his darkness, unbendable in his wrath, unforgiving eyes afire in grey-blue.

Charon's blackened boat hit the shore, the splash of water a silvery melody blending eerily with Christine's choked sobs…And the ferryman and Hades, Gargoyle and Don Juan, this Phantom that was Erik, carried her to the shore, roughly so.

Candles were lit, but their illumination was weak and ghostly whispers against dominant shadows reigning in corners, seemingly sucking the light into their abyssal bosom.

Cold seeped into her bones, her heart frozen in despair's icy grip.

Once a haven mysterious, a glorious sanctuary enchanting in its haunting sombre beauty was now nothing more than a gloomy, dismal dungeon where music itself was menacing and dusky.

Great mirrors were covered with velvet drapes, music sheets and drawings scattered haphazardly about the pipe organ.

Christine's gaze sought those of frosty grey-blue, ablaze still with a cold fire of the malefic rage held tightly in check, but ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

Christine wanted to shut her eyes against the twisted face further distorted by bitterness and unspeakable pain.

_What have I done…_

Suddenly, his hands grabbed the delicate shoulders, shaking Christine, violently so.

"Why! Why did you expose me like that!" Growled he, his words nearly incoherent through the hazy fog of his anger.

He then let go of her, pushing her away from him, and walking over to the pipe organ in deep frustration, smashing his fists into the ivory keys. A discordant nharmony of weeping notes shrieked, pierced the incense fragranced air eerily so.

He spoke again, this time more calmly, regaining his composure and his voice its darkly lyrical beauty.

"You made a perfect spectacle of the Opera Ghost, brava, my deceiving cherub! I couldn't havethought of itbetter!"

Christine, silent till then, found her own voice, somewhat shakily at first declared boldly.

"Maybe it was my heart acting, and not my reason!" Said she, and shook her curly head, delicate brows furrowed as she paced over, her voice growing stronger.

"Why did you condemn innocent people to such a gruesome death, whilst it is I who deserve your punishment! For both our sakes, end this torture!"

Erik half turned, the disfigured right side of his face caught the candlelight in monstrous brightness, dazzling her mind, the dark intent behind his eyes sending jolts of fear through her body.

_How could I to believe that the reason she exposed me to the very world I so despised and loathed , was that her heart beat against mine?_

"Oh, you shall suffer too, Christine, I assure you."

He whirled around, glaring down at her, his voice soft and absinthian, laced with ice.

"An eternity of this, before your eyes!" Snarled Erik through gritted teeth, grabbing her slender wrist and forcing her hand across his twisted flesh.

Christine did not flinch, she kept her gaze level with his, emotions swirling through her like tempest wind, threatening to break all shackles of reason.

_How shall I reward your treachery, my siren? Your honey sweet voice is poison seeping into my heart, your soft eyes glass-like and deceitful, mirroring a soul not unlike my own. In your desire you are mine, it's my breathless song your heart sings, and you still betrayed me._

For long moments, he simply stared at her, mutely so, drinking in the beauty that was Christine, her unbound curly hair, spilling past her exposed, pale shoulders, her wide-set brown eyes bright and clear, the exquisitely cut features of her small face, her shapely limbs as they moved in liquid grace, her undefiled body lithe and seductive in the Aminta dress…

_If there ever was an ultimate personification of female beauty, it did not lay at the tip of Boticelli's masterful brush…Venus did not do her justice…_

"You planned it all along, didn't you? You and that bloody vicomte!" Spat Erik, seized by a madness creeping into his heart to destroy every good intent.

Christine's eyes flashed as she suppressed a sigh. "Erik, listen to yourself! How could I have planned such a terrible deception? Nobody knew you were to play Don Juan! It was Raoul's idea to bar the doors, I did not want any part of it!"

Erik's unmasked face was a deep-set scowl, smouldering hatred at the mention of his adversary's name, embers of his passion burning brighter still from the sensual opera, at the face of Christine's defiance leaping higher.

And the face she beheld was not a cursed mass of twisted flesh, not a hideous monster but a fallen, broken angel shunned and denied the light of heaven.

"And yet you played along all the same! Brilliant, as usual, my dear!" He half said, half whispered sensuously into her ear, his lips leaving a searing trace over her neck, satisfied at her hearing her sigh despite her initial horror and disappointment, leaning instinctively closer.

"And you were ready to go with that bloody idiot who didn't hesitate to gamble your life away like that!" Hissed Erik, breaking the contact of their bodies, reluctantly.

Christine mumbled quietly, her voice hollow. "Apparently I was…"

Erik did not miss the stark tone of sarcasm shading her musical voice. Wrapping his arm around her delicate waist, crushing her to him with an iron might, he half-carried, half-dragged her up the carved stone steps to the alcove where the bridal mannequin smiled lifelessly.

Christine found herself staring at the doll with a mix of grief and strange anticipation. Behind her, Erik stood silent, his hand coming up to brush her thick curls aside to bury his face in the curve of her neck, his lips grazing over her porcelain skin with an ancient instinct.

Dread and exhilaration set loose, a deadly aphrodisia, she longed to reach out and touch the smooth, flowing snow white silk, the shimmering diaphanous veil, the glittering pearl beaded tiara…

The ungloved hand smoothed over her flat midriff through the velvet of her dress, his thumb grazing against the underside of her lace covered breasts. Erik heard her sharp intake of breath, the tiny quiver against his body that had been punished and starved of a more intimate touch too long.

His lips were next to her ear again, commanded he, his voice a velvet dream. "Put it on."

_Sweet temptress…I hated her with such black wrath it had settled into a cold, bitter fire that finally engulfed my reason. I loved her with such profound intensity that my love for her transcended all reason, destroyed all virtue, crushed all need, consumed me whole and undid my soul…_

Christine gave a quiet sigh…Upstairs, in the theatre, people were fleeing for their lives, dying even…And here she was, the shameless catalyst of all this disaster, allowing herself the luxury of happiness…

Erik began to undo the straps of her crimson corset, not waiting for her permission, his fingers moving with deft precision, when the last strap came undone, he released her then.

Christine obediently slid out of her dress, stepping out of the puddle of silk and velvet beneath her feet. Without any display of feminine modesty, she stood before him in her white lacy petticoats, half-naked, gracefully so, the long tresses of her curling hair falling over her breasts like the sensual veil of an odalisque.

Erik had not expected her to tease in such a way, after all that had transpired that night…A man blinded by desire, he was, his whole body growing steel hard and rigid as she mercilessly taunted him thus…

Turning, swallowing thickly, he prepared to leave to give her some privacy.

Angel-soft touch of her hand on his arm stopped Erik. He fingered a curling strand of perfumed auburn hair, inhaling its rose scent deeply. Her siren eyes froze him into place.

Christine was caught in the web of her own desire, at last, somewhat surprised at her change of heart, strangely numbed by a pain too sharp for words, but pain was the price of love.

She was already putting on the exquisite bridal gown, in pearly silk and pristine gossamer that fitted her delicate frame perfectly, Christine appeared like an otherworldly, magical creature.

A succubus…garbed in heavenly light.

Erik leaned over, his face an inch apart from hers.

"Do you not fear me, cherub? Do I not disgust you?" Asked Erik in a venomously soft, careful voice.

Before she could reply, however, somewhere nearby echoed the crimson sounds of flames rising high, engulfing Opera Populaire, triumphant in their path of destruction.

Erik snapped his head toward the direction of the lower vaults that housed the barrels of gunpowder. If the fire reached his lair…the disaster would soon turn into a fiery death in the explosion.

Like a phoenix rising from his ashes, from the shimmering waters of the subterranean lake rose Raoul, just behind the portcullis.

The disaster was only beginning.

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The last person to evacuate the building, Antoinette Giry stared, muted by grief at the blazing inferno that was once France's most popular Opera House. She was faintly aware of Meg tugging on her arm, tears streaking her doll-like face, Monsieur Firmin and Andre a few paces behind, watching their business turn to ash in horror and shock.

Erik and Christine were trapped inside, and the Vicomte was nowhere to be found.

Antoinette did something she had forgotten then, a long time ago, when Meg's father died.

She began to pray.

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Rurik paced the cobbled streets of Paris, wearily so. His thoughts were troubled, his mind leaping to conclusions, his imagination formulating fantastic nonsense.

It was useless…Paris was a big city, where was he to start looking for a cousin he'd never known?

Most worryingly, he had found his uncle's secret letters and personal documents.

_Radu Basarab. Also known as Radu the Handsome._

_Brother to Vlad Dracul, known as Voivode Impaler._

_Direct ancestor of Dragutonovich line._

Digging deeper into his uncle's hidden archives, Rurik had been appalled and shocked to discover written records of a secret cult idolizing an unorthodox diety.

Radu and Vlad Dracul. The deadly animosity between the two powerful brothers that drove the former to found a new order of knighthood, opposing that of the Order of Dragon. Victorious after Dracul's death, their banner had been a black cross with an upside down winged red dragon, symbolising the fall of Dracul. Eventually, soon after Radu's demise, the order had steered from its original just cause to fight the invading forces, and had become corrupted, descending further into the depths of depravity and cruelties of most blasphemous design, amid rumours of heresy and devil worship.

_A son promised…Destined to rule Wallachia with iron might and tyranny…_

Rurik was jolted out of his morbid reverie by screams and commotion nearby, and at the sight of smoke curling into the night sky from the blazing building, Rurik quickened his pace toward Opera Populaire.

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"**She'd sworn me wows in fragrant blood**

"**Never to part**

**Lest jealous heaven stole our hearts"**

**Then this I screamed:**

"**Come back to me!**

**I was born in love with thee**

**So why should fate stand in between?"**

**-Cradle of Filth, Her Ghost In The Fog**


	21. A Stygian Farewell

**Author's Note: Fondest greetings to you all. –grins- Here we are, down in Erik's lair again. For the last time, I'm afraid. I don't think I'll stay for the fireworks –shudders-  
**

**Padme Nijiri: Of course I don't take any offense, on the contrary, I appreciate your regular grammar checks. I will be re-editing the whole thing thanks to your efforts. Thanking you my dear!**

**Mademoiselle Kates: I am truly left speechless by your praise. –hugs- It's truly a pleasure writing this phic for u guys. Indeed, I think it's the main reason I returned, I've got the best readers, who am I to let them down. Hmm, we have descended to the deepest pits of darkness indeed, as you said my dear, I can only hope you will like it, because we're steering from the dark path into total chaos in this chapter. **

**SarahBelle: I know, the guy's a creep! Thank you very much for your review, it made me smile!**

**Morleigh&Starfire: You guys are terrific! Thanks!

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**"Where no hope is left, is left no fear." **

**-John Milton

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**"Long is the way And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light" **

**-John Milton

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**"Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey." **

**-Lord Byron

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A wraithlike beauty greeted Raoul's vision as he stared through the dripping iron portcullis that barred his path, transfixed by the scene unfolding before him.

Christine seemed to be made of pure moonlight, ivory silks and snow lace fused to clothe the seraph, crowned with winter lilies and radiant pearls, a luminous gossamer veil streaming elegantly down her shoulders and back like morning mist upon the long, silken tresses shaded in autumn sienna and burnished copper, dark against her flawless, milk white skin.

The Devil's Bride was beauteous in blasphemous white.

Rose-petal lips were unsmiling, but her cheeks were suffused with a soft blush, sculpted face tilted back slightly like a slender wintry flower bent to greet the sunlight it craved, so was Christine arched back to gaze upon the Phantom with her eyes sparkling, as he brought his face down to hers, his darkness eclipsing her pristine pale beauty, a white gloved hand seizing that of a long, black gloved one, fingers intertwined and ebony and ivory laced together in a silent, passionate bond, echoing the frenzied bliss that was the fervent kiss they just shared.

_I did it all for you, and all for nothing…_

She had not seen him there standing, broken and humiliated…Was this the indecisive, innocent young girl afraid of the dark? A maiden pure and soft? What a fool he had been for allowing himself to believe she was his, a true jester indeed in this drama, entertaining his manipulative, cruel court…

A white lily she had been, a bright red rose at times, but beneath the surface all she had truly ever been all along was a nocturnal flower waiting for the moonlight's cheer and the right season to bloom in her full black glory.

Azure eyes flooded with tears, streaming down dirt and sweat streaked hollow cheeks as he looked on in defeat.

Something tore at his heart, in that moment, something snapped inside Raoul, something that had lain dormant too long stirred to life, shredding logic and reason, as Christine's Phantom kiss shredded his heart.

The Phantom was the first to notice his presence.

"I bid you welcome, monsieur." Was the cold greeting as the iron portcullis began to rise. Stormy depths of grey-blue eyes were mocking, daring him to come forward, closer even, and play out the part fate had written for him, cruelly so.

Erik's vengeance was complete.

Raoul, hand gripping the hilt of his rapier, dripping blonde hair plastered across his wan face wildly, staggered forward to claim the tattered remnants of his dignity.

A lost crusader adorned with jester's bells, struggling in vain to rescue a maiden who had willingly given herself to monstrous Darkness.

Christine snapped her attention toward the haggard man, blue eyes blazing with a strange gleam, almost a little bestial he seemed as he approached.

Christine was rigid, colour drained from her face, standing lifeless as the mannequin, frozen by remorse, steeling herself instinctively for the final confrontation.

_I'm past the point of no return…The masks have fallen away…_

Raoul's accusing gaze fell on Christine first, his eyes hardening like frost layered blue waters, his rapier now drawn, candlelight glinting on its vicious blade.

"I see you have made your choice, beloved. How could you…" He choked, fresh tears flooding his eyes despite his best efforts. "You're still my fiancé, Christine, have you forgotten?"

Erik's half-demon, half-angel face was marble-like, eerily, inhumanly calm as he stepped between his nemesis and his bride, his own sabre drawn with a flash of steel.

"Step aside, fiend! I don't know what black witchcraft you concocted to sway her thus, but I swear, I will kill you for this! Only one of us will claim her hand tonight!"

Christine shook her head, aghast, her eyes wide, brilliant brown orbs shining with fear.

"No! Erik! Raoul! I beg of you, stop this madness now! Please!" Her feeble pleas fell on deaf ears as both men, fierce in their grim determination, advanced on each other.

"You forced her into this, you foul serpent!" Snarled Raoul.

"You're right monsieur. There's room for only one of us in her heart, and tonight, no more make-believe. We finish this, here and now." Erik said darkly, slowly.

Raoul lifted his blade, almost dizzy from the turmoil in his soul.

_Either way she chooses, I cannot hope to win. If she goes with him, I lose her forever. If she stays with me, his memory will always haunt her._

The Opera Ghost called Erik stood, Spanish sabre in hand, his eyes an endless void, fathomless and bottomless, resolute and fearless.

Raoul blinked, disquieted, his eyes reluctantly flicking to the Phantom's shadow with a weird instinct, his courage faltering in the face of the unknown terror. Fear seized his heart as he glimpsed the ebon image of the abyss that defied human logic… The phantom's shadow was alive, reflecting a shape humanoid, sinisterly so, but not human at all. The amorphous black mass coiled serpentine like, bleeding primordial darkness from times that humans worshipped pre-Christian deities long forgotten and demonized.

_I must be going insane! I'm delusional or spellbound…_

With a furious cry, Raoul sped forward, bringing his rapier down, aiming for the Phantom's neck. The sabre blocked the blow, sparks flying as the blades met and clashed thunderously.

"You stole her from me!" Roared Raoul as he flung himself at Erik with renewed zeal, his rapier whizzing past his opponent's ear.

Erik ducked just in time, swinging his sabre in perfect deadly grace, parrying the attacks that kept increasing in force.

Then, suddenly, his eyes locked onto something a few yards behind Raoul.

Flames licked the stone walls, rising up to the ceiling, searing the rock faces of gargoyles guarding the catacombs and the subterranean Voivodate. Even the lake seemed to surrender to the devouring flames…The divine fire that gorged itself on Opera Populaire grew ravenous, marching forward in single-minded greed like merciless efreet horde with blazing scythes bent on ruin and destruction, harvesting ash and death in their wake.

Soon, the fire would spread to the lower recesses of the cavern…

The heat was unbearable, the air was already becoming thick with smoke, suffocatingly so.

Christine's sweat soaked face contorted in horror, seeing in the red-orange flames all her nightmares merged in tenebrosity and brimstone.

They were trapped in this dreary dungeon that was to soon become a furnace, and their grave.

_In bridal shroud, with a Phantom's love in my heart and Raoul's curses I go to meet the Devil at last. Poor Raoul..I had no right to condemn him so…_

Raoul took full advantage of the moment's distraction that was the Phantom's downfall. The sabre was knocked from his hand, falling with a clatter. The vicious tip of the rapier blade pressed against his throat.

There was a slight twitch of the sculpted lips, seeing his defeat.

"Tell me monster, tell me why! Why! All I wanted was her love! You ruined it all!" Raoul cried, half-sobbing.

Erik was silent, his calm reserve not once flinching.

Raoul realized his efforts were futile, there was only one victor in this battle, one possible outcome. Legends and legions trembled at his name, kingdoms crumbled and eons turned to dust at his withering touch.

Death. Victorious death, arrived on fiery chariots to claim the three sin-tarnished souls.

_We are doomed, and we are going to burn forever in purging flames._

Erik gritted his teeth in sick anticipation, Christine was hauntingly quiet, torn between the two men.

Then, Vicomte de Chagny lowered his blade.

"It's over." He said on an ominous tone, quietly, a ragged breath blended with a low, sorrowful laughter. There was another flash, as Raoul pulled out his heirloom pistol, bringing it to his temple, feeling the cold metal soothingly pressed against his hot skin.

"Raoul, no! Don't! Put the gun down!" Sobbed Christine, hot tears rolling afresh down her face.

Erik's storm grey eyes swiftly cut to the pistol, surprised and suspicious, he watched the young man about to end his own life.

"Here the curtain falls at last. Goodbye, Christine." Raoul said quietly, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

He thought he heard her whisper to him, a sweet angel descending from the mists, her mouth opening, forming the words he came to cherish, live and die for.

It did not matter anymore.

Nothing mattered, as Raoul's vision forever blackened.

A single gunshot reverberated through the cavern, its hollow echo imprinted on the rock walls now a rich sanguine tapestry with Raoul de Chagny's blood.

Christine's scream was a siren's deepest mourning, an anguished banshee song that ended on a trembling note as she collapsed unconscious, unable to bear the tragedy.

Erik cursed furiously, somewhat relieved this pandemonium was finally over.

He was about to grab Christine and head for the exit known only to him, the twisted architect, Erik paused, seized by a sudden urge that was uncharacteristically superstitious.

Turning, he lifted the dead body and hauled it into the Charon boat. Staring down at the pale face of his defeated nemesis, still beautiful, frozen in death's quiet serenity, Erik produced two coins, and placed them on the dead man's eyes with a rare, solemn reverence. He then pushed the boat into the lake shimmering in firelight, burning bright like funeral pyre for a soul's final journey.

Erik hastily turned away, rushing to Christine and lifting her in his arms, carrying her to the inner sanctum. There, he stopped in front of a large mirror that stood against the wall like a chimerical entrance to netherworld. Tearing off the velvet cover, he smashed the glass with a kick of his booted foot. The flawless, reflective surface cracked, then dissolved into a carpet of brilliant glass shards at Erik's feet, revealing a dark passage beyond.

Without looking back, Erik stepped into the dark tunnel as Tenebrion merges into abyss, and disappeared down its endless pits, never to ascend.

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**Well, poor monkey music box is no more, Opera's gone, Raoul's dead, Erik's running for his life with Christine.**

**In the next chapter, we will find out if the fated two will find their Eden at last. Mme Giry, Rurik and Meg will be there too of course.**

**We're almost at the end, guys, so next chapter will be a grand one I think, to make up for the depressive one you just read. **

**Oh, don't forget to review, please. Thank you all!**


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